


Gotta Get Mine (Gotta Get Yours)

by antebellumera



Series: In Another Life [1]
Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artistic Liberties, Canon-Compliant Age Difference, Canon-Typical Drug and Alcohol Use, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Occasionally glossy on the details, Other pairings listed in fic notes, Self-Indulgent, Slightly Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Build, almost a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antebellumera/pseuds/antebellumera
Summary: At the age of fourteen, Jean Otus' life changes forever. It changes again when he goes to college and befriends a fellow student named Nino who makes him gain a little more faith in a world he regards as irrevocably bleak.





	1. Teach Us to Care and Not to Care (or, a Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been a long experience. i started it just before i left for college, and finished it upon returning. it's an endeavor of love for my best close friend sonia, and you can find her lovely acca-13 art on [her instagram art account.](http://www.instagram.com/ms.alpacaxx)
> 
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> [(also: here is the mood playlist for this fic, which i created on spotify in case anyone is interested)](https://open.spotify.com/user/12121216303/playlist/1uiE0qrMVR2I1YH5OQbD6a)
> 
>  
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> this is already complete and i will be posting the rest of the chapters momentarily.
> 
> i don't want to clog other ship tags by actually tagging them, but here are some other pairings brought up in this fic: magie/schwan, grossular/lilium, lotta/rail, the canonically implied crushes that mauve and jean have on grossular.
> 
> i did my best with parallels, but there's definitely some original stuff in the modern au story of jean otus' life. furthermore, please note that i played around with ages in order to make the most sense in telling this particular story; it's very self-explanatory, as is the slightly non-linear narrative. however, please let me know if there is any confusion that i can clarify or fix within the story.
> 
> there was no beta for this fic, and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> the title for this fic is taken from the song of the same name by mc breed ft. 2pac and you can [listen to it here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoUHwfQTpeM).

_“I know history. There are many names in history.  
But none of them are ours.” _

Richard Siken

 

They don't go out much. 

The last year of college is a difficult one. It throws curveballs at them left and right. Deadlines and unfinished assignments are always present. Graduation is imminent, but not without the proper amount of work. Lack of sleep becomes a habit. They laugh a little less than they used to. Underneath Nino's eyes are dark circles that grow a little deeper every day; Jean is luckier, his genetics and age do him favors in a different way than Nino's own do, and besides that he's very good at looking like he is absolutely put together. However, if Nino's tired face is what betrays him, then it's the cigarette always between Jean's fingers that professes how weary he truly is. Sometimes Nino wakes up at the kitchen table and finds that a blanket has been tossed over his sweater-clad shoulders sometime during the night. Jean isn't so good at falling asleep just anywhere. Nino brings him cups of tea or coffee, though, when he notices how much he's struggling to keep his eyes open as the night sky darkens over the east part of their bay. It keeps them anchored — as much as it can, that is. Their degrees are so impossibly close to being in their hands. That, paired with a fevered passion for that which they study, keeps them moving. 

Between their shared apartment and the university campus that practically serves as their second home, there aren't many places that are lucky enough to be graced with their presence aside from the corner market they frequent when their fridge is glaringly empty. 

That, and their favored bar.

Time is their enemy, but it's an unspoken agreement: On Fridays, they drink. 

 

* * *

 

_March — Two months until graduation._

 

Jean’s pupils are bouffant against their blue backdrop, growing a little smaller as he directs his gaze upward and stares into the unlawfully bright bronze hunk of a gaudy chandelier sprouting from the dark gray ceiling. Habit claws at his hands, pulls the left down from the bar he’s resting it on, bids it to dig around his trouser pocket until he finds the cardboard box of vices resting there. He pulls it out nonchalantly.

Nino notices. Quite to Jean’s chagrin, he always notices.

“You promised to quit after graduation.”

“That’s two months away.”

“Got to wean off or you’ll go crazy then. It won't be an ideal time to be out of your mind.”

To humor his friend, Jean decides he will put the rest of the cigarettes out of sight after pulling a single one out of its encasement. His lighter, familiar between his fingers, is smooth like silk, worn by time. It flickers twice before giving out altogether. That’s not unusual for the rickety thing. He bangs it against the bar three times before trying again. He shakes it for good measure, and after that it works.

Next to him, Nino sighs in an overly dramatic manner that he reserves for the Jean-shaped exasperations in his life.

“Jean, I promise you that the next time you smoke in here I’ll ban you for good.”

The accused Jean looks at Knot, the accusing bartender, with blank eyes before blowing a long, self-indulgent puff from his lips and into the noisy, stuffy air of the crowded establishment. “You always say that.”

“You think I let you stay around because I care? Because I’m passive? You get to stick around because I’d lose half my business without you and Nino around.”

At that, Nino shakes his head. He throws an arm around Jean like it’s nothing (and it really is nothing, he does it all the time). “I’d gladly keep coming without my partner in crime, even if our conversations are always more exciting after he’s gotten a few in him.”

“You wouldn’t.” Jean’s murmur is deep, barely heard underneath the ruckus. If Nino hears the true as day statement, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Knot’s gaze bores into Jean’s skull. He is settling into one of those rare serious moods, which means that he's about to be a nuisance for Jean.

“You gotta start smoking less, kid. I don’t trust Goon Number Two over here to be harsh on you. If not me, then who?”

Nino opens his mouth as if to refute that, but then shrugs. “He doesn’t listen to me, anyway. And the only other person this kid talks to besides you and me is his mentor, the source of at least half his poison sticks.”  
  
“If Mauve wants to help a starving college boy out,” Jean says, a bit of smoke circling around his fingers as he speaks, “I’m not in a position to complain.”

“Go starve somewhere else,” says Knot, his voice fading as he walks away. Someone across the bar is shouting for another shot of whiskey and another voice — higher in tone, and sounding suspiciously like Jean and Nino’s neighbor and classmate Atoli — is demanding more bourbon. It’s busy and hectic in _Bādon_ , which is nothing unusual for a Friday night in this college town.

Jean only has to shoot Nino a quick look before the other man is standing up, nodding towards the door.

They shuffle out side by side, though Nino lets Jean through the door first when he pushes it open. The night is hot despite their proximity to the bay. Combine that with the burning thing between his fingers, and Jean is suddenly hit with heat. What with the cigarette and all, it's far too much to bear. 

“Here, hold this.”

Nino takes the cigarette that Jean shoves at him so his hands will be free to peel off the light university slogan sweater he’s wearing over a dark brown cotton shirt. They don’t stop walking, though, and when Jean has tied the sweater over his waist he is aghast; the cigarette has disappeared from Nino’s cunning hand, and it only takes one look over his shoulder for Jean to see it, flickering a bit still, stomped on slightly several paces behind them. A particularly animalistic part of him wishes to stumble back and dive for it, but there are enough people walking around them towards all directions that the discarded thing quickly becomes the victim of more feet.

“I need to start spending time with other people,” Jean says. His voice is as biting as it ever gets, which is barely malicious. Despite his apparent resentment, he makes no effort to distance himself from the taller, older man who has hurt him so. They walk close enough that their arms touch. Jean, regrettably, thinks it’s kind of nice, except for the fact that he hates himself for thinking that and the fact that they always walk this close when they’re tipsy and heading home from the bar. He feels guilty marveling in normalcy. Their history pains him, a thorn in his side.

“That’s ambitious. Mind sharing which other friends you have besides me?”

“I  _do_  have friends that aren’t you.”

The arm pressed against his side nudges him. “Name one.”

“Mauve.”

“She's your mentor, and the only person in the world she’s ever truly liked is Professor Grossalur.”

“Rail and Magie then.” 

“Rail could be a friend, if he didn’t half-admire and half-fear you. Do you even know Magie's last name?” 

Jean snorts, and he knows there is no point in continuing an exchange in which he can only come out a loser. He knows already, anyway. This has been the truth of his life for as long as friendships have mattered to him. “It’s not like you have any other friends.” 

“I never claimed that I did.

“You’d have other friends if you cared to carry a conversation with all the people who try talking to you.” 

“Other people are boring, Jean.” There it is. Another sigh, though this one is softer and not the dramatic one Nino reserves for when Jean’s smoking habits bother him or when Jean is being particularly difficult with his reserved nature. It’s another kind of sigh – one that only Jean hears, when Nino is about to be overwhelmingly honest. “If I went around humoring them, I wouldn’t be able to spend all my time with you.”

If Jean’s face is red, he chooses not to notice. Besides, it’s dark enough that the moonlight cancels it out. “You say ridiculous things.”

“I say true things. I can be an open person, at times.”

The unspoken  _unlike you (except when it comes to the things no one wants you to be open about)_  hangs over them, and Nino nudges Jean again.

 _Mind reader,_  Jean thinks.

“But that’s me,” Nino tacks on. He’s sheepish. “You know mysterious allure has always suited you.”

The younger man opts for silence, his ears ringing with whatever else he could add on and chooses to omit. He could nudge Nino back, show a little innocent physical affection for once. Nino is always the one clapping his shoulder, tapping his back, leaning into him for dramatic effect. Jean thinks about touching Nino, and too many Code Red flags erupt in his mind. This is too far beyond his own emotional capabilities to worry about.

So he just worries about the moment, worries about looking down at the familiar sidewalk that carries them to the apartment complex they've called home for almost three years now. Two bedrooms within, one bathroom, a living room merged with a kitchen. It’s small, and it’s them.

When he steps underneath a streetlight, the arm next to him disappears. Jean looks over his shoulder — again — and blinks when the camera’s flash greets him.

“Haven’t gotten a good shot of you in a while.” Nino looks at the camera’s little screen. Whatever he sees makes him smile. Jean is perfectly aware that he isn’t allowed to look at it, which makes him frown. Nino never lets him look at any of the pictures he takes of him until they have been safely saved to both his laptop and a flash drive, lest Jean attempt to coerce him into deleting it. “This one is good.”  
  
“Whatever.”

They fall into step with each other again. They always do.

 

* * *

 

From his spot on their grungy couch, Jean waves his hand into the air. His feet are pressed against their coffee table, sprouting from his long and lanky legs that are not as long and lanky as Nino’s.

“Beer,” he says. Then he adds, “Please.”

A moment later, Nino presses a cold glass bottle into his hand. He settles next to Jean on the sofa, and raises an eyebrow when he sees the news channel that Jean has set their television to, where a familiar wrinkled face on the screen is smiling directly at them with the mayor of New York.

“He looks smaller on camera,” Nino says.

“Falke is small in person. Vertically.”

Neither of them says anything about Jean calling his grandfather by his given name.

“Schwan looks way too smug up there for someone who hasn’t taken over Dowa yet,” notes Nino, and next to him Jean shrugs.

“It’s his for sure. At least Lotta has been promised a position.”

Maybe it’s just one of those nights where dangerous territory needs to be crossed. Nino takes in a deep but quiet breath, gearing up before he says in a gentler voice than usual, “You could have one, too.”

“I barely understand what they do. Lotta is the financial genius.”

“She’ll keep them from falling apart once Schwan becomes the CEO.”

“Yeah.”

“You could write reports, you know. You could do something low maintenance and write your stuff on the side.”

Jean is rarely ever annoyed by Nino. He remains unbothered now, but knows he is dangerously close.

(He’s a hypocrite to himself. Time and time again, he thinks: Nino ought to be harsher. Nino ought to stop acting like Jean is fragile, like he’ll break or disappear if Nino ever says something negative without a teasing lilt in his voice. Yet he falls apart the moment that Nino pushes him into facing some truth he has no interest in facing.)

“You know that’s not what I want.”

“I know.”

“It’s not the life my mom wanted.”

Again, there is silence.

Nino repeats, “I know. Sorry.”

And Jean says, “It’s fine.

It’s Jean who is so dreadfully confused about what he wants in life, anyway; it’s Jean who has dragged Nino into this co-dependent world where he stifles Nino’s newfound aspirations with his own muddled ones.

 

* * *

 

It’s 2 AM and the television turns itself off automatically, startling Jean from his half sleep. A bit disoriented, he looks to his left. Nino is awake, much more awake than he is, and he remains pushed up against Jean’s side.

“I guess that means it’s time for bed. Proper bed.”

Jean yawns in response, pulling the familiar cardboard box and lighter out of his pocket as he rises. He stretches, yawns again. When he lights a cigarette, and Nino has yet to stand, Jean says, “Midnight snack.”

He expects a response like  _it’s not midnight_  to snap at him (softly) but such a response never comes. 

Nino says, in a carefully balanced voice, “I got a job offer down south.”

“What?” Perhaps Jean looks as shocked as he feels, but it isn’t likely. “Where? When?”

“Professor Abend has connections in Los Angeles. They own a small studio and it's still starting out, but one of their photographers quit. They want someone with a ‘fresh’ perspective. He recommended me. They called this morning.”

While Jean was in class. More questions reel through his mind like they're being played on a projector. Shuffling through them, he finds the most important one. 

“What did you tell them?”

Their age gap, though wide, has always had a clear bridge drawn between it. Nino looks young; not younger than Jean, but just as young. His glasses hide the bags underneath his eyes, his skin is clear and his dyed blue hair falls soft just past his ears. He’s ten years older than Jean, and Jean has never felt the difference until this moment where he suddenly has the oddest notion that he himself is the older of the pair.

Nino doesn’t look at Jean. “I accepted it.”

The cigarette, usually a welcome antidote for discomfort, tastes ugly on his spoiled tongue. He huffs, lets the smoke out, makes sure to avoid aiming in Nino’s direction.

“Sorry,” Jean says. “I’m just tired, but I am happy for you. Congratulations.”

There is relief on Nino’s face that cuts daggers through Jean’s chest, the sharpness rumbling to his core and throwing a fit. Composure comes to him like breathing — he doesn’t have to try and pretend that this isn’t affecting him. He does it without even thinking, like right now when he looks away from Nino as his friend rises and heads towards his bedroom.

It doesn’t feel very good, this act. A thought is looming over Jean and it's none too pleasant.

He's a little too old now to be playing pretend.

 

 

 


	2. Antebellum

_“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”_

T.S. Eliot

 

_A lifetime ago._

 

Schnee Otus leaves New York at seventeen, on the cusp of eighteen.

The whole plan is elaborate, orchestrated so that there could not possibly be any holes. Unlike her sisters, she is never introduced as a socialite to the world. Her mother has family in France, humble and not as endowed as that of Falke; they invite Schnee, the second eldest, to stay with them for a year after her mother dies. She is eight years old when she boards the plane en route to Europe, and nine years old when she returns to Dowa Tower.

Her eyes have never shone brighter than they do after that.

Falke thinks it is because Schnee has an eye for culture, a certain appreciation for the more artistic pursuits in life, and France has pushed her imagination to its finest abilities with all that it has to offer. Her sisters theorize that her trip was healing – nothing more, and nothing less.

No one expects her to suddenly burst into her father’s office one day with a pleading look on her face, a declaration firm in her heavy throat:

“This isn’t the life I want.”

 

* * *

 

She chooses San Francisco. Hair dyed dark brown and cut short falls around her face, which still possesses baby fat. Her loose, casual clothes hide her background as best as they can. She wears dark glasses when she goes out and she goes home to a small apartment she shares with the nanny of sorts that Falke has hired to look after her until she comes of age. Amongst Falke’s many daughters, Schnee is easily forgotten. It is a constantly spoken rule within her family that the children are not to be introduced as people of status until they come of age: A safeguard against those that may aim to harm old money families like her own.

With cool winds and the bay to guide her, she finishes her last semesters of high school. When the college acceptance letter arrives, her bank account is flooded with the amount she will need for tuition, housing, and all else; when she holds her public school diploma in her hand and turns eighteen, her caretaker leaves.

Schnee moves into her dorm. She studies philosophy and political science. Then Karl Otus, a hopelessly ordinary business major, is suddenly in her life, and Schnee falls in love.

At twenty-two, freshly married, she becomes a mother.

 

* * *

 

Jean doesn’t know he is a descendant of important people in the technical sense. He only knows that he comes from important people in the sense that his parents are overwhelmingly important to him and Lotta.

The Otus family is ordinary, but they never want for anything. A tall building near Embarcadero is the place they called home, with the Otus couple presiding over it as the resident managers. As a child, he peers over their balcony from the top floor and watches the water of his hometown bay.

“You always look so pensive, Jeanie,” Schnee murmurs, running a hand through his yellow locks. She tends to find him here. He could have been here for minutes or hours. His parents never really know how much time he has spent there at any given moment – they only know that it makes him happy to sit on the balcony, witnessing the city move as fast as it does and enthralled at the sight of boats leaving the port, boats coming into the port. Most of the time he takes a book out with him, but there are days when all he really yearns to do is _watch_. Sometimes Schnee and Karl take Lotta and Jean to Fisherman’s Wharf, where the latter of their children is far more interested in resting his head against wooden railings and looking at the water, looking at the sky, than he is in looking at the colorful shops and restaurants. Lotta is different, as siblings often are. Where Jean is quiet, she is loud; where he is introverted, she is extraverted. She pulls at his hand, tugs him from his weary thoughts, and makes him buy sweets with her or run along the sidewalk.

“Pensive?”

“It means you like to think a lot about different things, and very deeply.”

Jean is silent. Eleven years old, and already thinking about where he wants to go someday. Schnee sees herself in him, and she can’t tell if it scares her. Maybe it makes her proud, but pride and fear have never been exclusive.

“There’s a lot out there to think about.”

“You’re not wrong,” Schnee says.

He starts writing in earnest when he is thirteen. Teachers have waxed lyrical to his parents from the very beginning of his education. They say that his command of the English language is advanced, that it holds more promise than that of most other children his age. It’s different for Lotta, who struggles with both penmanship and vocabulary but excels beyond anyone’s expectations when equations are placed in front of her. At nine years old, there were already plans being put in place to ensure that she has the necessary background to take introductory calculus classes once she reaches high school. In Jean’s case, there’s little to do except make sure that he always has a healthy supply of books, notebooks, and pens.

It’s mostly short fiction that pours out of his writing instruments, though he dabbles in poetry every now and then, to hardly any avail. Some part of him wants to be a journalist, though. It is as practical a job as he can think of without resorting to teaching English, and he reasons that it wouldn’t be so bad if the whole novelist pursuit doesn’t work out.

“I liked the _Iliad_ when I was younger,” Schnee tells Jean, peering over his shoulder. He is on the balcony, as he usually is, the heavy book spread open on his lap. In old pictures of his parents, Schnee is a short-haired brunette. Sometime during college, she returned to her natural color – a shade of blonde lighter than her children’s similar hair. Every now and then she still wears dark sunglasses outside the house. She says she is afraid of sun damage. Karl, for whatever reason, disbelieves this and thinks it’s an old habit from the shyness she had exhibited in their younger days. Jean and Lotta think nothing of it.

Jean is not fond of discussing his literary pursuits. Verbal expression is not as easy for him as written expression is.

Still, he tells her, “I like it, too.”

From somewhere inside, Lotta’s voice calls out, “Jean! Come help me build this Lego castle!”

 

* * *

 

When his parents die, Jean cries for the first time since he was a wailing, unaware toddler still fragile and vulnerable to the most insignificant of inconveniences. Fourteen years’ worth of tears fall from the eyes that everyone always told him were the very image of those belonging to Schnee.

Eyes that would no longer smile at him every morning.

A neighbor stays with them for a week. They don’t go to school, and they don’t have many friends who are looking to inquire about their well-being. It is as quiet as mourning ought to be, and that is what they do.

Six days after their parents die in the train accident, Jean and Lotta learn that they have a grandfather.

 

* * *

 

“Jean,” Lotta’s careful voice whispers next to him. Her hand tugs at the sleeve of his sweater as they move to exit the crowded plane. She looks at him with a sort of determination that rivals the stubborn expression that Schnee used to make. “Be nice to him, okay?”

Though Jean is embarrassed to receive such advice from his eleven year old sister, he knows those words are needed. The entirety of his defenses are up and he is on edge. He doesn’t look it, but Lotta is observant and she knows him. Besides that, she’s wise.

Falke is not the one who picks them up. There’s a man with a sign reading _Jean and Lotta_ on it standing near the terminal. It unnerves Jean to see that he has already picked up their luggage; is it a show of power? Of connections? How easily this family he never knew he had can pull strings?

Of course no one is expecting them to be all smiles, but Lotta does it anyway. She grips Jean’s hand tight, and as they walk towards the man, she squeezes it.

“I’m Mohnt.” There is an air of formality about him that immediately bores Jean. “Miss Lotta, you are the very image of Schnee.”

Though her lips quirk in surprise, she stills squeaks out a response. “Oh. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

A few days into their visit, Falke poses the question that they all know has to be asked.

Jean is seated in his office sans Lotta. Of the two, it is his sister that has been the most communicative. On the first day of their visit, when Falke sat them down and cried – he _cried_ , and Jean is still uncomfortable at the memory of it – over their mutual loss, Lotta asked question after question about their mother and the history that she never shared with her children or husband. Jean can’t make himself resent Falke when he has the full story – that would mean that he would have to resent his mother, and her reasons for leaving and becoming a self-made woman rather than riding the coattails of her family make perfect sense to him.

There’s no resentment.

That doesn’t mean he wants any part of this.

New York isn’t for him. He knew this immediately, he knew this on the second day of being here. When Falke and Mohnt took Jean and Lotta out to see the most popular tourist sites, he only wrinkled his nose and wished that he was back on a balcony miles above the city in which he was raised.

“Jean,” Falke says, “if I had any say in it, your family would have always been part of my life. I want to make up for it now. You see, I have an heir already – his name is Schwan, and he is younger than you but older than Lotta. He was the oldest of all my grandchildren until you formally returned to the Dowa family.”

He’s silent. It’s on his tongue, but he won’t say it: _We haven’t returned. We’re just here because we have nowhere else to go._

His grandfather continues. “Schwan won’t be happy, and neither will your aunt – his mother. But you are the eldest, and the title is yours to claim.”

“I don’t want it.” Jean has never been more certain of anything. He has learned enough about his mother now to understand why she did not crave his life; he understands why she craved more and why she had to do what she did. Jean wouldn’t exist if his mother hadn’t chosen freedom and he intends to honor that.

He could say all of that and more to Falke.

He doesn’t.

“Well, you’re not eighteen yet,” says Falke, and it’s clear that he is taken aback by the resolution in Jean’s voice. “There’s still time to decide. Technically, it is rightfully—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jean murmurs, his eyes now directed at a heavy paperweight on Falke’s desk instead of his grandfather’s person, “I’m sure that this isn’t the life I want.”

 

* * *

 

Schwan hates Jean. He’s kind enough to Lotta that Jean forgives him for it, because he can more or less understand from where the hate has evolved. The boy has been bred for greatness, for fame, since the day he was born. He was the uncontested heir to Dowa before Jean came along and shuffled everything up for everyone.

He is eleven. It seems that he is only a month older than Lotta. Jean can’t help but ponder on what a lucky break the boy has caught; though Jean has resolved to take no real part of the Dowa legacy that does belong to him if one takes a look at the intricacies of such things as inheritances, he isn’t so sure that Lotta would be as quick to refuse.

They stay in the Dowa Hotel, which is very conveniently placed across the street from Dowa Tower, the building that houses not only Falke’s office but the offices of the many employees that serve Jean’s grandfather. They’re in the heart of Manhattan, but this particular block is nicknamed “The Dowa Kingdom” because every business on it is owned by none other than Falke Dowa, current CEO of Dowa, Inc.

It is the Dowa Hotel that Schwan calls home. While the rest of Jean and Lotta’s cousins are off in various European boarding schools being groomed for their future lives as socialites, Schwan is here receiving the most important education of all the Dowa children: How to take over one of the most important multimillion dollar companies in the entire world.

Falke wants them to spend time together. Of the three, it’s really only Lotta that has any genuinely positive feelings about the whole ordeal, especially since they are trusted to take breakfast, lunch, and dinner without an adult chaperone seated with them. Mohnt, who turns out to be head of security at Dowa, sits in the table next to them; Jean is uncomfortable knowing that Falke values them enough to give his most trusted guard the job of looking after them.

It’s over breakfast during the Otus siblings’ time in New York that Schwan says, “When are you two going to leave already?”

“Not soon enough,” Jean says.

At the same time, Lotta admits, “I’d like to stay.”

The look Jean shoots over at his sister is incredulous. He’s disoriented by her statement, but he can’t question her because this time Schwan has brought along a short boy who introduced himself as Magie – Schwan’s best friend, apparently – who lets out an audible gasp.

(Frankly, Jean is exorbitantly impressed that the kid somehow managed to make a friend despite his sour attitude and tendency to speak his mind far too easily.)

“Be nice,” whispers Magie. His blue eyes are the color of his hair, blown wide at the bluntness of the little prince-like brat.

“I’m not being mean.” Schwan crosses his arms, and he fixes Jean with a look that the latter assumes is meant to be threatening. It is, of course, not threatening at all. “The question is fair.”

“I plan on going home as soon as possible,” begins Jean, peering at his sister from the corner of his eye. He can’t gauge her reaction; she’s seated right next to him, and she’s very pointedly making an effort to not meet her brother’s gaze. “School starts up in a month.”

The restaurant is quiet and quaint, far simpler than most of the eloquent and conspicuous establishments that Falke has been treating his two newest grandchildren to practically every night. Instead of white tablecloths, the tables are bare and wooden. It’s still expensive, of course – it’s a Dowa-owned restaurant within the Dowa hotel. Jean scratches at the hard surface, and he wishes that he were already back in San Francisco. He wishes, in fact, that he was anywhere but here.

“Jean.” Lotta’s voice is very quiet. “We don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You’re serious? I’ll have to deal with you full-time?”

A small cry escapes Schwan’s mouth when Magie swats at him. Jean looks at the two, and then looks back at Lotta. She looks small, crouched and uncertain and _scared_. Neither of them care about Schwan not wanting them; he’s a brat, but he’s harmless. And they know that Falke does care for them – he’s made it evident, and there’s no reason to doubt him.

(Jean still doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust Dowa in general, really. Maybe he could find a home here, but he’d still prefer to go back to the west coast. Nothing about this city feels like home to him, and nothing about it reminds him of his parents.)

“So,” Magie pipes up, looking rather worn out even though it’s only nine in the morning, “what’s it like in – um, San Francisco is where you’re from, right?”

Lotta talks. Jean sits, and thinks.

 

* * *

 

**From: English Departmental [englishlitdepartmental@...]  
To: Jean Otus [jean-otus@gmail.com]**

_April 1 4:00 PM_

Dear Jean Otus,

We are pleased to offer you admission to our esteemed English BA program at one of the finest institutions in the world! You should have already received your general admission letter. Being part of this program will prepare you for a career later in life and enrich your overall college experience. This is one of the smallest departments on campus, which you will soon find is only to your advantage. Program benefits include a mentor and humanities-specific housing as part of our Integrative Humanities Initiative (read more about that **HERE** ). Additionally, you have been selected to receive a prestigious merit-based scholarship available only to out-of-state program participants. Your tuition will be paid; however, you are responsible for housing costs and personal expenses. Attached you will find necessary paperwork that you must fill out to indicate that you accept our offer of admission. The deadline is May 1.

We look forward to meeting you this fall, and…

**ATTACHED: 4 DOCUMENTS**

 

* * *

 

Jean accepts the offer from his mother’s alma mater.

With that, he bids the Dowa Kingdom goodbye – along with his sister, and the rest of his family that he still barely knows at all – and goes back home.


	3. Bad Habits to Kick

_“Idle youth, / subservient to everything,_  
_I have frittered away my life / through gentleness,_  
 _Ah! May the time come_  
 _When hearts will meet.”_

Arthur Rimbaud

 

_September – 3 years, 8 months until graduation._

 

Mauve lights her cigarette as she laughs gently. Her wave of hair moves over her shoulders as she shakes her head, eyes gleaming at Jean in the dusk light.

“Want one?” She holds the box out, and before Jean can accept, she adds, “I already know you’re going to say yes.”

Jean feels more at ease with the smoke in his lungs now, and he finds that he can (ironically) breathe a little easier. He picked up the habit during his last year of high school; it was annoying having to keep it a secret from his sister and Schwan, and less annoying having to keep it a secret from the well-intentioned but busy and aloof Falke. Once he settled into college life, smoking became less of a bad habit and more of a lifestyle.

Mauve still looks amused. They’re standing outside of her office, and the sun went down about an hour ago. A few students are still lingering about the campus, though; they’re a good half hour from San Francisco, and most of the inhabitants of this town are college students. It’s not strange at all to find them walking alone or in hordes once it’s gone dark.

“God, Jean. You’ve really been keeping it in this whole time?”

“I’ve known you for two months.”

“That’s practically a lifetime when you’re in college. Besides, you’re stuck with me for the next four years of your miserable life as a student.”

A ghost of a smirk plays over Jean’s lips, but of course it’s far too good to be true. He won’t give Mauve the gift of that much facial expression. “Should I have told you during our first meeting?”

“That’s overkill, but our third at the latest would’ve been a good time to drop this bomb.”

“My preferences aren’t that interesting.”

“Well, it’s not so much that you’re into men,” says Mauve, still looking like she’s having a hell of a time keeping her laughter in, “but the particular _man_ that’s caught your eye.”

“Don’t say it so loudly.”

“So you care what people think?”

“Not about men in general, but about _the_ man.”

She shakes her head and leans against the door behind her, blowing out a mass of smoke before saying anything else. “I think the whole campus knows about my feelings for Grossular. It’s not something I dwell on anymore. Can anyone really blame us? He commands respect, he’s easily the smartest professor here, and on top of that – I wouldn’t complain if he offered to let me tangle my hands in his hair.”

The physical aspect of it all is something that Jean has tried to ignore. He’s succeeded, for the most part. Hearing Mauve talk about it so shamelessly makes him quiver; he’s jealous that she can so easily admit to her attraction for the head of the English department. But she’s right up in Grossular’s ranks as his second-in-command, and Jean is just a first year student.

He should be jealous of her actual feelings, but he isn’t – as it is, neither of them really have a chance. Jean tells Mauve that, and she nods.

“There are rumors. He’s not married, but there _is_ someone in the picture. For as long as I have known him, he’s refrained from sharing anything about his personal life beyond his education. Still – we all pick up on obvious cues. He’s definitely involved with someone. God, I wish I knew who.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course.” Mauve chuckles, the dying bud flickering between her long and slender fingers. “Then I’d know who to dispose of. You could help me.”

Naturally, Jean knows she’s just joking; she likes doing that, saying shocking things to get a rise out of him. He supposes it’s her own unorthodox way of teaching him. She thinks he needs to put himself in the metaphorical “out there” more often, and along the way learn to smile and be chummier. It’ll help with his future career, according to her. Jean nods and says he’ll work on it although he truly believes his writing should speak for itself without extra verbal nonsense from him.

He’s lucky to have been assigned such a prominent mentor. Though the English Department is small in comparison to most of the other majors offered here, the majority of his classmates were assigned to the lesser known rank and file professors.

He lets himself believe that it was by coincidence that he ended up being one of the students from the very small handful that Mauve mentors, like he lets himself believe it was an accident that he ended up with a single dorm room – not an extreme rarity, but still unusual. Jean can’t let himself believe it was preordained, planned because he’s now known to be from a prominent family. When Falke took him and Lotta in, the entire ordeal didn’t make for anything more than tabloid news; rule of thumb, in the Dowa family, is still to protect the children from the public eye until they turn eighteen. Being that Falke was his legal guardian at the time during which he was applying for college, however, it was inevitable that the higher ups from the university would be made aware of who he is.

“Hey, Jean?” Mauve’s look is curious; she tilts her head to the side. “You know…I was kidding. You don’t have to help me kill anyone.”

Nodding, Jean raises the cigarette to his lips in lieu of speaking. Sometimes it’s easy to talk to her, and sometimes it’s not.

“Someday I’ll run my mouth too much,” she continues, quite used to his silences by now. “If I get fired, Grossular would likely take on my caseload. That’d be to your advantage.”

“I’m not stupid,” says Jean. “Like I said – it’s barely attraction. I respect him.”

“That’s what I used to say, too,” she retorts. “You’re young, anyway. There’s still time to meet a nice boy who will sweep you off your feet. When that happens, tell me right away.”

“Sure,” he says. “Don’t count on that happening, though.”

“New generation English majors are so much more cynical than we were back in the day,” Mauve sighs. She’s more or less speaking to herself, not to him. “I thought it was bad when we used to throw around the ‘nihilist’ label, but you take it to the next level. You don’t _care_ enough to have a label. You really just don’t care.”

He smiles. It’s small, barely there, just a slight upturn of his lips.

“There’s much to think about,” Jean says, “but very little to care about.”

 

* * *

 

“Until capitalism has fallen, we will never be at peace.”

The way Professor Lilium stalks around the room is lithe, graceful but secretive; his movements are always smooth, and there is a look about him that gives away just how ready he is to strike.

In most cases, he strikes with words.

“You might say, ‘We can fix it before we overthrow it’,” he continues, “but you must realize the futility of your words. This is a system that has always been self-aware of its tendency to exploit; exploitation is, in fact, at its very core. How do you fix something if fixing would mean irrevocably removing its meaning? That, students, is called destroying – not fixing.”

The digital clock on his desk flips from 3:59 PM to 4:00 PM, and that stops the professor from continuing. A nonchalant hand tells everyone that they are free to go.

“Don’t forget to do the weekly reading,” are his last words before he sits down and begins tapping away furiously at his MacBook.

Jean stands, balancing the rickety desk as he does so. The school is old, but it seems like the supplies are even older. He doesn’t mind it at all. Gathering his bag over his shoulder, he pauses a moment where he is, waiting for the bulk of his classmates to stream out of the gaping, almost overwhelmingly large lecture hall. This is an introductory comparative politics lecture, a general course that is rabidly popular because of the man who teaches it. Almost every first year student desires to get their general education social studies requirement out of the way with this class; Jean had no idea about its popularity before he signed up, but he understands it quite well now.

As he walks down the ramp, towards the front of the classroom and the door, Lilium’s head snaps upwards.

“Otus.”

“Yes, sir?”

There are a few students still lingering, gathering their things. A girl with pink hair noticeably gasps when Lilium utters Jean’s name, and it mirrors how Jean feels right about now. He had no idea the man was aware of his existence, let alone his name.

“Your paper was extraordinary,” Lilium tells him. His tone is clipped, focus. It reveals nothing. “I look forward to seeing more of your work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have a good weekend.”

“You as well.”

Jean makes towards the door again. Just as he exits, a lump in the carpet catches his foot and his textbook flies out of his hands before he can do anything about it. Luckily, he does not fall.

Another hand grabs for the book before he does. It startles him, but not as much as the eyes peering down at him do.

“How bothersome,” says the man standing in front of him. A deep warm smile accompanies his words, which is an odd combination. How bothersome – spoken with a genuinely chipper attitude.

“Thanks.”

He takes the book being handed to him.

The stranger says, “I was talking about the carpet.”

Of course. Jean shrugs. “Guess I’ll be more careful next time.”

The girl with pink hair pushes past Jean as she all but throws herself out of the room. Seems like she’s in a hurry, not trying to be rude. Still, it brings Jean back to reality. To avoid further possible collisions, he looks away from the taller man with astonishingly blue hair and matching eyes, opting to continue on his path.

But the man follows, and his smile is a mixture of curiosity and something different – something sad and quiet that Jean can’t place. Something he might learn how to feel someday, but not today.

“My name is Nino,” he tells Jean. “I’ve seen you in class before.”

“Lilium’s class?”

“Yes.”

The words spill out of his throat, quiet, subdued.

“I’m Jean.”

As they fall into step for the first time, Jean doesn’t notice the knowing look that slips over Nino’s face.

 

* * *

 

Nino’s long pale fingers contort like the sky blue paper he is holding, twisting into odd shapes as he morphs it into something three-dimensional. As per usual, his expression is calm, serene, focused. Jean watches him out of the corner of his eye from where he is seated across from him in the university library. A minute later, a crane emerges from the sheet of paper as naturally as if it had always been that way. Jean looks up properly when said crane is placed on top of his open textbook.

“For good luck.”

An eyebrow is raised, then it falls. Jean picks it up with gingerly, applying as little pressure as possible. Of course it’s silly to see such value in the thing; he’s held handkerchiefs worth more than the closed laptop in his shoulder bag. But holding it makes a nice feeling erupt in his chest.

It feels like friendship.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, placing it next to the textbook it sat on just a moment prior.

“You’re not really in need of it, though.” When Nino says that he tilts his head to the side and places his chin on the knuckles of his left hand, elbow resting on the worn surface of the long table. Having been lured here under the impression that Nino is in need of a (in Nino’s words) “solid study partner who’ll keep him getting distracted”, Jean is suspicious for multiple reasons. The guy doesn’t seem to be that bad of a student, honestly. Since they met two weeks ago, Jean has noticed him answering Lilium’s questions in a marvelously astute manner at least five times. Despite that fact, Nino has spent the past thirty minutes flipping through photographs on his laptop (Jean peeked when he thought the other man wasn’t looking) and then proceeding to make this paper crane.

A pause, then Nino adds, “You’re getting by quite nicely already.”

“So are you,” Jean can’t help but shoot back. He means it. They barely know each other and yet Jean already feels a strange amount of respect for Nino.

“I’m not Lilium’s favorite, though. That would be _you_.”

His nose wrinkles hearing that. “It’s odd. I’m not even studying political science.”

“You know he stopped me after class yesterday since you hurried out to get to your next class. He asked if I would consider trying to sway you into changing majors.”

Jean almost gags. What a persistent man. “Why would he ask you to do that?”

“He said he’s seen us talking before class.”

He shrugs, looking back down at his textbook. A proper friend hasn’t come along for him since he was in elementary school, and making friends was less than a ritual and more like a series of accidents. It’s easy to make friends when no one really cares about anything and the only evidence which one can use to define pain is a skinned knee or a paper cut. Growing up, everything becomes more complex. Making friends was a hassle in which Jean never sought to take part.

Until Nino, that is, but everything automatically becomes easier with Nino. They can sit in silence for hours, poring over their notes and assignments, and all the while Jean is contentedly aware of Nino’s existence in the background. His presence is comfortable white noise. Jean is rapidly becoming dependent on it.

“I was debating whether to bring it up or not.” Jean looks back up at Nino, who is now looking off into some direction past Jean as he says that. “You seem pretty happy with what you’re studying. English, right?”

“Journalism,” Jean corrects. It occurs to him that he’s never asked Nino what he’s studying, and never told Nino what he himself is studying. “Most of the intro classes overlap. There’s no separate department, though, so it technically falls under English.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Well, it doesn’t take much to figure out how much you love it, and even less to figure out that you’re not the type to take what other people have to say into account.” Nino’s library voice is deeper than the drawl he has when he’s louder. It rumbles through Jean, feels intimate and safe. Feels like friendship, again.

“Most people guess I’m a science or math person because of how quiet I am.”

“I’m not most people. Besides, I’m learned in quiet passion.”

Jean’s mouth quirks up at that. “Are you? What’s your major?”

“Technically? Art. But my concentration is photography.” Nino turns the computer screen towards Jean, who becomes witness to a familiar building that has been edited and now looks purple.

“That’s my dorm unit,” says Jean. He blinks, staring at it. “I don’t really know anything about photography. Nice work?”

At that, Nino chuckles. Jean’s smile emerges in earnest.

“Thanks. Now I know where you live.”

“Only until the end of the year.”

“Well, I have an apartment four blocks from campus. I’m older than most of the starting students here. It felt awkward to get university housing.”

They haven’t really talked about that yet. Nino has alluded to his age a few times, but Jean has thus discerned a few things: He’s not a transfer student because he has freshman status, which means that he simply didn’t continue his education out of high school and has just now commenced his undergraduate degree. Other than that, he essentially knows zilch about his background aside from the fact that he claims to have grown up around San Francisco.

“Invite me over sometime,” Jean says without thinking. “The dorms get loud on the weekends. I’m not really interested in joining whatever party is being thrown.”

“Unfortunately for you, I happen to live right by the frat blocks. That’s probably why the rent is so low. It’s not unusual for me to walk out and find passed out kids across the street.”

When Jean quirks an eyebrow up, Nino adds, “But you’re still welcome to come over.”

“I’m taking you up on that soon.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The way Nino smiles at him then solidifies something in Jean’s mind.

This feels, without a doubt, like friendship.

 

* * *

 

[ Text ] To: Nino  
3:10 PM – I overslept. Do you have the notes from today?

[ Text ] From: Nino  
3:55 PM – sorry, just got out of lecture. was wondering where you were earlier. i wrote them by hand, want me to swing by and drop them off?

[ Text ] To: Nino  
4:01 PM – Just take a picture of them. That’s what you do best.

[ Text ] From: Nino  
4:03 PM – sure. guess i’ll have to eat these strawberry cupcakes by myself, then.

[ Text ] From: Nino  
4:05 PM – ATTACHED: 4 IMAGES

[ Text ] To: Nino  
4:06 PM: Oh wait. How unfortunate. The pictures didn’t come through. Now you do have to come. Sorry.

[ Text ] From: Nino  
4:07 PM: be there in 5.

[Text ] From: Nino  
4:07 PM: and yes i’m judging your sleeping habits. who oversleeps for a noon class?

 

* * *

 

Jean walks into Mauve’s office for his bimonthly advisor meeting and is immediately fixed with a glare.

“You canceled on me,” she accuses, though she’s stating a fact.

“I had other obligations,” says Jean. Said obligations involved walking to Nino’s apartment after class last Thursday and seeing it for the first time. The evening had been nice. Jean wonders if he should have been involved in the whole friendship thing all along, or if none of it would have been the same if Nino wasn’t around. “Sorry.”

“Did these obligations concern a certain friend?”

He blinks twice, confused, then says, “What?”

“Brace yourself for a headache of an explanation,” Mauve sighs and pushes a loose strand of otherwise flawless hair out of her eyes. She rises from her desk chair, circles around, crosses her arms, and then sits on the desk itself. When she gestures for Jean to take a seat in the plush armchair placed right in front of the desk, he obeys. “Grossular told me that Lilium from the political science department told him how much he wishes a certain Jean Otus would leave Grossular’s department for his own, and then proceeded to complain about how futile his efforts are going to become now that you’re hanging around, and I quote, ‘a no-good art student’.”

“That’s a migraine, not a headache,” Jean murmurs, and straightens up in the chair. “Don’t concern me with gossip. You know I’m fine where I am.”

“Jean, could you really live not knowing what people think about you?”

“Yes. Quite gladly, actually.”

“You’re a specimen from a species all of your own. Maybe that’s why everyone is so obsessed with you.”

“I’d rather they not be.”

Mauve scoffs. “Well, besides it being due to your sharp wit and overwhelming charm, I’ve got a hunch as to why Lilium is so obsessed with you. He pretends he’s an egalitarian, or a red-blooded communist, or whatever is shocking people these days since he changes his affiliations constantly, but at the end of the day he’s gladly reaping the full benefits of being a legacy through and through. His family has more influence in the Middle East than most politicians over there and all of the Lilium brothers studied at Harvard. The eldest Lilium brother taught pre-law studies here before he retired five years ago. As it would be, the aforementioned eldest Lilium had a very interesting protégé of a student. You might know her – Schnee Otus, née Dowa.”

Schnee. He hasn’t heard anyone say it in a long time. Falke doesn’t bring her up much anymore. Neither does Lotta. Though the memory of his mother rests peacefully in his heart always, he rarely finds occasion to mention her.

“Have you always known about that?” He has to ask. “About my mother being a Dowa?”

She answers him easily. “Yeah. I’m not much older than her, though, so I never met her. No one knew about her status while she was here. We knew about you immediately, obviously. Your grandfather wanted to know if he could pay off your tuition without your consent. It was quite the scandal. In your application, you indicated that you have no relationship and intended to become emancipated. The Dean made a decision to deny him outright. I think he backed down for your sake since it’s pretty clear the man can likely move oceans with his fortune.”

“He’s not a bad man,” Jean tells her. An almost familial sensation arises within him; Falke isn’t a bad person by any definition. Jean is just hot-headed despite appearances and dead set on being independent of the Dowa family.

The older woman looks at him like he’s grown a third head. Like he’s grown a fourth head, even. “I never said he was.”

“I don’t want to be looked at as Jean from the Dowa family,” he says. He feels younger than he’s ever felt underneath her scrutinizing gaze. “I’m just Jean Otus and I’m ordinary.”

“Believe me, kid, you’re not ordinary.” Again she circles around her desk, and reclaims her seat in her looming brown leather hunk of a chair. She lifts up her pant-clad leg, places it over her other leg. “And I don’t care about where you happen to be from, alright? Your goal was to prove yourself on your own and you have.”

He is skeptical now. “Are you this friendly with the other students you mentor?”

“I never had to mentor until you came along. It would look bad if you were the only one, of course. Grossular made an executive decision to make sure you were in the best hands possible.” She’s been holding this information in all along, which accounts for the shit-eating grin she’s wearing now.

Jean wants to be angry. He wants to feel disrespected by it all; he wants to be certain that he could be as moved and supported as he is by Mauve if they were in any other reality besides this one. Ultimately – and much to his chagrin – he has gotten too much of this mentorship to truly devalue it and reduce it to a relationship of convenience. Whatever the reasoning, he can’t doubt the genuine nature of Mauve’s sentiments. She’s been a clutch in his silent but uniquely new, uniquely difficult, navigation of this independent college life.

“Your cigarette-wielding hands are the best possible?”

“Hey, now, I only give you cigarettes because I’m not about to let a student of mine flunk out of college on account of nicotine withdrawal.” That’s her cue to open the top left drawer of her imposing desk and pull out a fresh, unopened box. “Go ahead and take the whole thing. I’ve probably struck a chord or ten this afternoon, so here’s something for your troubles.”

Though he considers arguing with her, it’s an appealing gift that he can’t refuse. So he leans forward and takes it.

“Thanks.”

A casual wave of her hand is his _you’re welcome_. “By the way, Grossular doesn’t gossip. He only told me about Lilium’s interest because he wanted me to know how coveted you are and then mentor you accordingly with that in mind. Apparently, he’s convinced that you need more challenges. I’m supposed to dish out those challenges.”

“Like what?” He unwraps the plastic cover on the case of cigarettes. It’s an upscale brand that he’s never had the privilege of trying, even when he was purchasing them on his grandfather’s dime with the permissions of several fake identification cards.

“Preparing you to enter the honors program, for one. You’re a top candidate. Plus, he thinks it’ll help us hold you down in the English department.”

“I’m here to stay.”

“I know.” Mauve points at the opening box in Jean’s hands. “Not now. Pochard threatened to tell Grossular on me if he smells smoke one more time. Anyway, we won’t discuss any advanced courses until the end of your first year. Tell me about this art student of yours.”

“He’s not _mine_.” Jean closes the box regretfully, keeping it balanced on his leg for now. “He’s just a friend. That’s all.”

“I hate to tell you this, Jean,” Mauve leans forward, setting her elbows atop a few scattered pieces of official looking papers, “but ‘just a friend’ is monumental in your world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's all pretend i am not projecting terribly on jean otus 24/7 (:


	4. Composed of Eros and of Dust

“ _Against the rush and roar of life,_  
_O beauty, carved in stone,_  
 _you stand mute and still, alone and aloof._ ”

Rabindranath Tagore

 

_April – 3 years, 1 month until graduation._

 

When the rumor begins, it’s small. People don’t really believe it when they first hear it. Initially, word of mouth is narrow; those what would care about the news at all are not on the immediate receiving end.

Jean hears it from Moz, another English major, who sits next to him in their shared Renaissance literature class. She doesn’t tell it to him, of course. Though they chat every now and then, Moz is the chipper type. Jean’s silences do nothing to inspire one of her gossip tirades. Instead, she tells Kelly, a tall girl with short green hair who sits behind them.

“You won’t believe what I heard.”

“Is it that thing about Atoli’s girlfriend?”

“Shush, I don’t gossip about friends. So you know how the political science department has this rivalry with the English department?”

“Oh, yes. I’m a double major and I get a lot of shit.”

“Well, turns out that Professor Grossular and Professor Lilium are hooking up on the down low.”

He almost hears Kelly’s mouth drop. Against his better judgment, he turns to face Moz.

“Where did you hear this?” If his heart is beating a little faster than usual, it doesn’t show on his face.

“A-ah, from – from…I promised not to tell, but he was super certain.” Moz looks taken aback by Jean’s sudden quip. “I didn’t think you cared about little matters like this, Jean. Are you a closet gossip queen?”

Jean grimaces. That expression he _will_ give her. “It just sounds outlandish.”

Kelly decides to add her two cents. “Moz never relays a rumor without fact checking, especially if it’s a bomb like this one.”

Moz nods vigorously. “Definitely! You know Eider, that junior that TAs for our journalism course? She’s not the one who told me, but when I told her she confirmed that she had _also_ heard it from someone trustworthy!”

Professor Pochard walks in then, his loud presence coaxing the entire room into silence. Jean’s mind settles a mile away, and it doesn’t get any closer to paying attention as the lecture begins.

 

* * *

 

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
12:08 PM – Are you in your office today?

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
12:10 PM – So you heard.

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
12:11 PM – Yes.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
12:18 PM – I’m in Chicago for a conference until next week. Coffee when I get back?

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
12:20 PM – You could always buy a bottle of vodka and we’ll talk it out.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
12:25 PM – I’m already going to hell for the cigarettes. Coffee.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
12:26 PM – At least now we know who would’ve had the better chance with him.

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
12:35 PM – We both know we were equally lost causes.

[ Text ] To: Nino  
12:36 PM – Are you free for lunch?

 

* * *

 

“You look upset.”

“I look like I always do.”

“I’ll give you that because always look vaguely upset. But you can’t see yourself all the time, Jean. What do you know about your own facial expressions?”

Jean shrugs, sitting back in his chair. For the moment, their preferred choice for fine dining is one of the university’s dining halls, but a hole in the wall one that few people frequent because it’s technically off campus. It happens to be a five minute walk from Nino’s apartment.

“Go ahead and bottle it up. In two years when you turn twenty-one, you can buy me a drink instead of the other way around and we’ll finally have a nice heart-to-heart with your loosened tongue,” says Nino. He picks up his half empty cup of coffee – which he takes with an amount of cream that ought to be illegal – and takes a hefty sip. They’ve drank together, but never to the point of real intoxication. Nino justifies his alcohol purchases because he knows that Jean has fake IDs and would get it on his own anyway. “I’m looking forward to finding out if you’re a sad drunk or a party drunk. As funny as the second option would be, the first option holds boundless opportunities for our friendship.”

“There’s nothing to bottle up.”

 _I have a small and inappropriate crush on the head of the English department_ is a little too much to confess to when he hasn’t smoked in two hours. Besides that, the sun is glaring at him through the window and it feels utterly judgmental. Maybe one day he’ll come clean to Nino about this, though he can’t see himself doing that right about now.

There’s more to worry about, anyway. He was denied university housing for the upcoming year because only first years are guaranteed a dorm, and he neglected work-study in favor of using up the relatively small education fund that his parents left behind. It covered his first year completely, and his financial aid helped him pay for personal expenses (read: cigarettes and too many strawberry-flavored pastries), but the remaining amount is barely enough for his third semester.

“Are you trying to murder that sandwich with your glare?”

Jean snaps to attention at the sound of Nino’s voice, realizing that he has indeed been staring far too intently at said sandwich. He picks it up, staring at the white bread and erupting lettuce forlornly. A camera flash makes him blink.

(He’s gotten quite used to Nino taking pictures of him. Sometimes he doesn’t even process that the camera’s shutter has gone off; like Nino himself, it’s something to which he has easily become accustomed.)

While Nino analyzes the shot, Jean looks at him. His black glasses, which darken in the sunlight, are currently obstructing Jean’s view of Nino’s eyes. It’s easy enough to picture them, though. He’s looked at them enough by now. The other man’s face is twisted in concentration, a look that entails a furrowed brow and the slightest quirk of his lips. When he is truly in deep concentration, the tip of his pink tongue peeks through his equally pink lips. Painfully straight and almost never messy strands of blue hair fall around his ears; his bangs are long enough to cover parts of his eyebrows.

Without realizing, Jean has come into possession of a best friend.

“Do you want to meet Lotta?” He says this with half of the sandwich bite still in his mouth.

Nino tears his gaze away from the camera’s small display. “Over Skype?”

“No,” says Jean, “in real life. She’ll be here in two days.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” A strike of guilt slashes through Jean, but it’s quelled by the soft laugh emitted from Nino’s throat. “You’re so unpredictable. I’d love to meet your sister.”

“She’s been asking about you.”

“You talk to her about me?”

Jean blinks. Confusion envelopes him. “What else would I talk to her about?”

The silence between them lasts for a prolonged moment, and it might be one bred from shock. Neither of them can tell. Nino shrugs it off by smiling – it is a dazzling, bright, impossibly wide smile. “Your incredibly interesting life as a prospective honors candidate in the English department. Your mentor’s bad habit of enabling _your_ bad habit. I’m not that interesting.”

“You’re okay,” says Jean. Nino’s laugh is contagious and possibly capable of saving lives.

Saving the world, even. Jean wouldn’t hesitate to claim that of its strength.

 

* * *

 

The day of Lotta’s arrival, Jean enlists Nino with an important task: Helping him plan out what they can do in the short time that she will be staying in a local hotel ten minutes from Jean and Nino’s university.

“She has simple tastes and isn’t hard to please,” Jean says. They’re sitting at Nino’s kitchen table, a sheet of paper and a pencil between them. “We’re not like our cousins. Our lives weren’t made of luxury.”

“So your infamous idiot cousin won’t be accompanying her?” Nino’s smile is teasing.

“No, thank goodness. If he wasn’t family, I’d never voluntarily enter the same room as him.” Jean puts his head in his hands.

“Harsh.”

“A necessary cruelty. He’s a pain.”

“How unlucky it is that we don’t choose our family.”

Jean picks up the pencil, but there’s nothing for him to write down yet. “You’ve never talked about your family.”

“I only ever had my dad,” says Nino. His tone is more cautious than usual. “He died a few years ago.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t say sorry because Nino didn’t say sorry when Jean told him about his parents, and that had been refreshing.

“I think we should take her on the official tour hosted by the university. They’d do a better job than we could,” pipes up Nino after a moment. “To be honest, I barely know my way around the art department.”

Admittedly, Jean knows next to nothing about sights of interest within the campus. He’s pretty holed up in his own department. “That makes sense. Lotta would like that. To be honest, she’d probably prefer eating in the dining hall than anywhere else. She likely wants to know what my ‘day to day life’ is like.”

“She sounds like a good sister.”

“The best.”

“Why is she coming now, though? Why not visit in the summer?”

“Columbia accepted her into an elite advanced summer program for high school students. She’ll be busy, and it’s her spring break right now.”

Nodding, Nino rubs his thumb on his sharp chin in thought. “You’ve mentioned how smart she is.”

“Yeah, and she only has two days to spare because her SAT is coming up.” Jean is proud of her. She may be living under Falke’s watch, but she’s still proving herself in her own right regardless. “A bodyguard will probably come with her. I wouldn’t put it past Falke to send his head of security, Mohnt.”

It only takes an hour to finish planning. Lotta will be staying for two nights and almost three days, arriving Saturday afternoon and leaving Monday evening. On impulse, Jean pencils in their Sunday itinerary.

They’re going to a very familiar part of San Francisco. It’s long overdue.

 

* * *

 

Lotta bursts into tears when she’s introduced to Nino seconds after stumbling over to the two men waiting for her. She’s got both her suitcase and Mohnt in tow, and despite her sobs being relatively quiet she still manages to attract a few stares.

Jean peers down at her, arm still wrapped around her shoulders in a half hug. “Are you okay?”

“I’m so glad you’re not alone.” Lotta shakes her head, pulling out a wrinkled tissue from her wrinkled jeans. Her soft white cotton t-shirt and plain black sneakers give nothing away about her birthright and current residence. Though her face is red – particularly her small nose, which is bright enough to stop traffic as a result of her sniffles – her eyes are still glistening, and it’s not just the tears at work. “I knew you had a friend here, but I had to see it to really believe it, and I…”

She trails off when a particularly strong sob shakes through her body.

“Thank you for being Jean’s friend!” At that moment, Lotta pulls out of Jean’s embrace and wraps Nino in a surprising hug. He responds accordingly, though taken aback, and lifts his arms to pat her back. It is Jean’s turn to shake his head.

“It’s not that bad,” Nino tells her. A wink is directed at Jean when he says that.

Jean scoffs.

 

* * *

 

“Who are you texting?”

It’s probably because they’ve been dormant for several months now, but Jean’s Big Brother Instincts are rapidly coming into play. They’ve been seated at the dining hall table for twenty minutes now, and Lotta – who usually finds it exceedingly rude to use her phone while in someone else’s company, especially that of her brother whom she hasn’t seen in so long – has spent the last ten minutes with her blue eyes glued to the little screen she is tapping persistently.

“Um, a friend.”

Nino has a night class on Fridays. This is a huge misfortune that Jean has whined about multiple times. But it means that Jean and Lotta have time to catch up one on one, just the two of them. Like the old days.

Needless to say, they didn’t spend much (voluntary) time with Schwan when Jean was in New York.

“Fine.”

Lotta does have decency, so she sighs and puts the phone down next to her plate.

“It’s just that he – they – they’re in another country right now, so time zones…it’s morning where they are and they were just saying, ahem, good morning.”

“Lotta, do you have a boyfriend?”

She looks mortified. “No! It’s not like that! He’s – they’re just – he’s a friend, Jean. Just a friend.”

“A friend that makes you smile like that?”

Lotta pouts. It makes her look younger than she really is – right on the border of fifteen, but still fourteen years of age. “He’s a good friend. I didn’t like him at first. We’re both in the STEM club at school and it turned out that he’s really smart and we have a lot in common.”

“So he’s also a behind-the-scenes heir for one of the most important companies in the world?”

She snorts at his statement, fully engaged in the conversation by now. “’One of the most important companies in the world’ – I wish I had a pastry for every time I’ve heard Schwan say that.”

Jean teeters between asking and between not asking. “Has he gotten better?”

“He’s always been okay, Jean. You know he wouldn’t actually hurt a fly. He would just scream murder at it for a few hours and wait for it to go away.”

A nonchalant shrug is his only response.

“Anyway,” Lotta continues, picking up her spoon and unconsciously poking at the plastic cup of green gelatin Jean picked out for her, “Magie is going to be his bodyguard. I guess he comes from a family of bodyguards? And there’s this completely feudal tradition in the Dowa family where a Dowa member’s bodyguard is supposed to be completely ‘bonded’ and ‘devoted’ to them. Something like that. It doesn’t apply to me because I, well, ‘joined’ so late. I just get Mohnt or Magie’s dad, mostly.”

Somehow the “feudal tradition” doesn’t surprise him. “How is Magie?”

“Oh, he’s alright. He gets by. Schwan kind of scares off any potential friends, so they’re still all that the other has. We don’t really talk at school, though. Not many people even know that Schwan and I are related, so they know even less about how and why I know Magie.”

“Are you happy, Lotta?”

“I am,” she says immediately, firmly. He doesn’t doubt her. “I’ve never been mad at you, but it took me awhile to understand why you couldn’t be happy in the Dowa Kingdom. I miss you. I don’t blame you.”

Jean looks down. Her openness and willingness to share embarrasses him because he is to terrible at reciprocating. “I was wondering if you’d be okay—”

“Can we visit mom and dad?”

Now he looks at her, and nods.

 

* * *

 

Nino tells him that he knows a professor on campus who is willing to let him borrow his car for the day. To take Lotta and Jean to San Francisco, and to the little suburb cemetery where their parents rest.

“Your mentor?”

“No. An old friend of my dad’s.”

Jean is surprised. This is a reminder of something he often forgets: Nino had a life before him. He knows people that Jean doesn’t know.

When Jean fails to respond in time, Nino looks away. They’re standing outside of the hotel where Lotta and Mohnt have retired for the night.

“I understand if you don’t want me there.”

“I do want you there,” Jean says, quickly. Just as Nino isn’t looking at him, he does not look at Nino. “I – I _need_ you there.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

 

* * *

 

Mohnt argued with them for the entirety of two minutes before giving up. He still insisted on driving behind them in a rental car for security purposes. Jean told him that literally no one around here was aware of his elite status, etc. Lotta said she felt perfectly safe with Nino, Jean’s nice best friend. Nino stood behind them in the hotel lobby looking sheepish and amused.

As is to be expected, they hit bumper to bumper traffic while crossing the bridge into the city. Lotta decides it’s the perfect opportunity to interrogate Nino. She’s already learned all she needs to know about Jean’s college life.

“I can’t believe you’re older than Jean,” she says. It’s the second time she’s said this since Nino revealed he is twenty-eight, soon to be twenty-nine. Jean didn’t flinch when Nino answered Lotta’s desperately probing question with a point blank state. Twenty-eight. In the seven months they’ve known each other thus far, Jean had come to theorize that his friend’s age fell somewhere at minimum five years older than Jean. Double that ought to have shocked him. Very little, though, has shocked Jean since he found out his grandfather was Falke Dowa II of Dowa, Inc.

“So I don’t look it?” Nino’s gaze is trained straight ahead, though it’s really for naught. They’re not going anywhere.

“No, not at all! I’d guess, hmm, twenty at the oldest. I did some social snooping – Jean told me not to – and I thought that you were a freshman just like Jean.”

“Technically, I _am_ a freshman.” He is thoroughly unfazed by Lotta. From the back seat, Jean watches his sister lean forward and invade Nino’s personal space. Again, he is unfazed.

She points at his glasses. “It’s these things. They make you look younger.”

“Glasses are an untapped anti-aging technique.”

Lotta sits back in the shotgun seat that she (unfairly) won. Jean made her a flip a coin for it. He is still convinced that she cheated somehow, though he can’t fathom _exactly_ how.

“So you decided to go back to school?”

“I didn’t have the money straight out of high school.” Like most personal information he divulges, this bit is relayed with a nonchalant tone. “I knew I wanted to go into photography, which is a risky field, so I worked first. I saved money.”

“That’s so practical!” Lotta squeals, wiggling in her seat. The traffic starts letting up, and Nino can finally take the car out of parking and go back into drive.

 _Practical_ , Lotta had said. Jean can’t help but think that the word he would have used is _patient_.

 

* * *

 

The sight blurs in Jean’s slightly wet eyes. He has to remind himself that this isn’t a dream. It doesn’t feel like one aside from the fact that it looks exactly like his memories. Not a single brick was omitted from his thoughts whenever he looked back on his childhood; the building where he and Lotta grew up is the same. Painfully so.

Lotta skips ahead of them on the sidewalk. They let her be the one to enter the building and inquire about seeing the top floor once inhabited by the Otus family.

Nino wants to ask Jean if he’s alright. He doesn’t, but Jean can tell he wants to ask. They linger outside, waiting.

“I’m fine.”

The words are barely above a whisper. In his black polo, Nino looks even younger than usual. He says, “That’s good.”

A moment later, Lotta comes stumbling out.

“Good news!” She straightens out the collar of her denim shirt, huffing a bit from the excitement of it all. “No one is living on our floor. They’re in between managers right now.”

Jean follows her in, followed by Nino. To his dismay, the lobby has undergone several changes. He remembers it all as a vaguely pastel shade of yellow; golden chandeliers, white candles, an ornate desk with elaborate art deco features. Whoever thought it needed changes decided to take a much more modern route. He sees sleek black leather couches, plain orange squares, white walls.

Lotta falls back and tugs at his arm. “It’s weird.”

“Yeah.”

The young man who has agreed to take them up for a quick tour – “I’m just a temp,” he tells them, “and I’m really not sure how okay this is” – takes them up through the familiar staff elevator. It’s the one they used to take back in the day, the only way to get up to the floor reserved specifically for the building manager and their family.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. When they tumble out, the floor is essentially empty save for a few dust mites clinging to the gray carpet that encompasses the entire vicinity. A hand squeezes his suddenly; he thinks, for an outrageous moment, that Nino’s hand is to blame.

It’s Lotta, though. She links her arm with his and pulls him into the living room. The building employee waits in front of the elevator, looking positively bored. Jean looks over his shoulder for a wavering second and sees that Nino has opted to stay behind like the employee.

Together, he and Lotta walk through the rooms. He is struck with the strange feeling that one gets when inside a place that used to bustle with life, that used to be ridden with footsteps and family and love, and now sits hollow and cold and alone. The ghosts of his childhood float in the air. The silence stifles him.

Letting go of his sister as they approach the room that belonged to their parents, Jean turns and moves towards a familiar set of glass doors. They creak when he opens them, like they are somehow rejecting his sudden presence. He doesn’t care. He moves past them, and the salty air hits his face. It’s a bullet, a slap. It’s a caress and a hug all at once.

When Nino enters, Jean feels it even though he is almost completely silent. He hears Nino crack his knuckles, probably flexing them. He doesn’t look when his friend moves up next to him and carefully places his hands on the edge of the balcony.

Together, they look over San Francisco. Jean thinks – it’s a crazy, ridiculous, unfounded thought – that, perhaps in another life, they have already stood on this very spot.

 

* * *

 

Their graves are nothing to write home about. Falke paid for them, but Jean forbade him from being outlandish. His veins quivered at the thought of his parents being commemorated as any other Dowa family member, like they would be put to rest in an unfamiliar and unfairly stiff bed that they weren’t used to in life. For this reason, they received simple headstones. They were buried in northern California, the place they called home. They’re the Otus patriarch and matriarch, not lost heirs to the Dowa Kingdom.

Nino and Jean stay several feet back as Lotta kneels before them, hands shaking a little as she whispers, inaudibly, to the headstones in front of her. Jean had his moment already. He was able to keep his hands more still than Lotta.

“Thank you for this,” he murmurs to Nino.

Nino says, “It’s no big deal.”

Mohnt is parked on the curb behind the car that Nino borrowed from the unnamed professor. The unnamed family friend.

Jean wonders, desperately, gears turning in his head, what it will take for Nino to tell him everything that he could ever know about him. He wants to know Nino like no one else does. As far as he knows, he holds the status of Nino’s current only friend. But who came before him? Who was privy to his thoughts, his desire, his beautiful smiles, his camera flashes?

Who had the privilege of knowing Nino?

“Still.” Jean looks at Nino. Their shoulders are almost touching, his brown leather jacket next to Nino’s black leather jacket. Nino’s piercing eyes migrate over to meet his intense gaze. “I appreciate you. It’s important that you know that.”

Nino quirks an eyebrow, cheeks slightly flushed. It could be a sense of flattery, it could be the cold wind blowing around them. It doesn’t really matter to Jean.

“Hey.” Nino’s voice is low, gruff. He nudges Jean’s side with his elbow, gifting him with a little knowing smile. “I already do.”

Jean lowers his eyes and once again focuses on Lotta, who remains in the same position. It scares him, this thing he sees when Nino looks at him. At the same time, he would die, he thinks, if one day it were to disappear. He wants to see it there forever.

He just doesn’t know when he can look at him with the same intent. This isn’t a question of _if_ , just _when_.

(In the corner of his mind there is a whisper:

 _It’s a good thing that patience is Nino’s greatest virtue._ )

 

* * *

 

Lotta leaves and life continues. She leaves both Jean and Nino with a tight, lingering hug. There is visible sadness in her eyes as she waves at them from the retreating rental car that Mohnt is driving.

Jean and Nino turn around towards the direction of campus. They continue.

 

* * *

 

On Monday evening after Lotta’s retreat, Nino picks Jean up from his late art history discussion. It’s a grueling three hour thing, meant to substantiate the relatively fleeting one hour lecture that is often jam-packed with heavy information. Since it lets out at 9 PM, and Nino works at an on-campus coffee shop just across from the building, he usually walks Jean back to the dorms since it is on his way home.

The smile that greets Jean is familiar on the surface, but Jean sees something heavy on Nino’s face even in the dark shadows of the growing night. The black circles under Nino’s eyes are always there, they’re just worse today.

“Hey,” Nino says.

And Jean knows, without a doubt, that something is wrong.

As always, they fall into step together. Nino walks a little faster than he tends to, though, and Jean’s heart pounds like a rhythm with their pounding steps, in tandem.

“Nino,” he says, and at the same Nino utters a clipped, “Jean.”

Nino coughs, and stops. “Me first.”

How can he say no to that carefully diplomatic voice? How can he say no to Nino at all, ever, in any life they might have once lived together?

A curt nod is his response.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” begins Nino, “and you don’t deserve any more deception in your life.”

“What do you mean—”

“Questions later.” Nino sighs, looks up at the half moon in the star-lit sky. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but not until I’m done.”

In a rare show of dissatisfaction, Jean shakes his head. “You’re scaring me.”

“Sorry.”

“Just go on.”

 

* * *

 

Jean has mattered to Nino for far longer than Nino has mattered to Jean.

The former learns this from Nino’s hushed, rushed voice, standing in the middle of their university campus. They stay there as time passes them by and neither notices. There is only Nino’s voice. There is only Jean’s beating heart.

Nino’s father was a man indebted to someone that Falke trusted – Abend, a social advisor whose family had worked for the Dowa family for as long as anyone could remember. In truth, the story was never all that complicated. Falke’s heart, at the end of the day, is as gold as the age-old treasures his family has collected over the generations. He could never ask explicitly for someone to give their life away like that just so he could keep some semblance of a connection to his estranged daughter. The idea was Abend’s. He would change his appearance, move to San Francisco. Keep an eye on her from afar, make sure that she never wanted for anything. Convenient “luck” would follow her (until, of course, it abruptly and unexpectedly ran out much later). Nino’s father, upon learning of this, fell to Abend’s feet and begged for him to allow for him to come along, to help him keep an eye on the ex-heiress. He couldn’t do it alone, he reasoned, and he essentially owed the man his life. New York was his home, but he would gladly change this for the sake of repaying his debt.

A moment passed when he was certain that he would leave his young son, the only reminder of his late wife, with a cousin that lived in the Bronx. The change from Manhattan wouldn’t be that dramatic. At least, Nino’s father reasoned, his son could then stay in the state where his mother had grown up.

Nino was bright, stubborn. Six years old and a menace when an idea got into his head, he grabbed his father’s shirt sleeve and told him that he would go, too. How could he not?

They settled. They managed. His father worked on campus, a day laborer that fixed anything that needed fixing. Abend was adjunct faculty, a quiet figure that lectured on business. Nino finished elementary school in one of the cities outside of San Francisco.

He was ten when Jean was born.

(“You were, for me, what your father was to my mother.”

“A quiet guardian. I suppose, in retrospect, an unwitting stalker.”

“How could I have never seen you?”

“I was very, very, very good at what I did. After all, I started young.”)

His father had, naturally, protested. He didn’t want to involve his son in his debts. But there was no talking Nino out of anything – he grew up aspiring to be like his father, and his father was the noble guardian of the youngest Dowa daughter. He wanted to do that. He wanted to protect her children so that his father wouldn’t have to worry about taking on more charges.

Abend didn’t protest. He was the one with the power to make little “miracles” happen for Shnee – alluring job offers, invitations to networking events, etc. – but he couldn’t keep an eye on her, Karl, and now – her child, Jean Otus.

His first camera was a gift from Abend.

The job didn’t really start in earnest until Jean was five. That’s when Nino, fifteen and focused, started documenting his life. The pictures he took of Jean were sent via email to Falke Dowa. It made him bristle with pride to receive praising responses.

Falke covered their living expenses in exchange for the pictures. Eventually, at sixteen, Nino was homeschooled instead. It freed up his days so he could better document Jean’s life, could better keep track of his every move. He and his father sat down for night lessons. He earned his high school diploma, and that was that.

It was a consistent routine. Follow Jean, follow Lotta. Follow Karl or Schnee if they were with Jean and Lotta. Take pictures. Send them. Receive a thank you, and a monthly check.

(“Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t know any other life.”)

When the train that killed Schnee and Karl crashed, it killed another remnant of the Dowa Kingdom.

It killed Nino’s father, who was on it. Who was doing his job.

Falke asked for Abend and Nino to return to New York, but only the latter did. Abend was a full-time professor by then. He chose to stay in that life. Nino, realizing that Jean and Lotta were going to meet their family, were going to finally know their true legacy, did the only thing he could have done after a lifetime of following them.

At twenty-four years old, he went back to the city he hadn’t seen since he was six years old. The city where he was born, and the neighborhood where his mother died.

(“You followed us there. You kept on doing your job.”

“What else could I have done?”

“Did you watch over me? In New York.”

“The first time I saw you again after leaving was when we ended up in the same class.”)

Nino, after devoting his life to the Dowa family, did not stop. Falke gave him a job at a New Hampshire Dowa warehouse. He worked. He saved.

He never stopped asking how the Otus children were doing.

There were several factors that contributed to Nino deciding that he would apply to attend the university the Schnee Otus had attended – the university that Jean dreamed of attending. The main one was money. Four years working a job he didn’t deserve with his qualifications started to mean something. Beyond that, there was the fact that the Bay Area was his home. He knew the area well, had learned its intricacies when he learned how to navigate it unseen and unheard. Abend was there, and Abend was a major part of the tiny world him and his father had created.

And there was that habit that he had never outgrown, which was of course his firm grasp on the idea that his life’s purpose was to follow Jean Otus.

 

* * *

 

“It was luck,” says Nino, when he is finished, “that I ended up being able to continue following you. I didn’t plan for that.”

They are quiet. Nino adds, very quietly, “I was so happy that you could finally see me.”

“You don’t follow me anymore, Nino.” Jean is numb. This is hardly something that someone can have a planned reaction to, they don’t teach you how to react to being continuously told you have been lied to in school. “No one is doing any following here. That’s not how we are.”

Nino shakes his head. “What I know how to do best is follow you.”

Jean looks at him. He _looks_. He sees the dark circles, the square glasses. The floppy blue hair and the intensity knitted into the very light wrinkles in his skin. This is a man who does not look his age. This is a man who cares about him a frightening amount, who has cared for him a very long time. 

Without a word, he leaves.

Nino does not follow. And the world feels as if it has fallen out of habit.


	5. And Let Slip the Dogs of War

_“If equal affection cannot be,_  
_let the more loving one be me.”_

W.H. Auden

 

_May – 3 years until graduation._

 

The new month begins a few days after Nino confesses to Jean. Clouds get a little whiter, the breeze gets a little warmer. Jean does what he would usually do, and it’s only odd because Nino isn’t by his side. It’s not anger that he feels, but there is certainly quite a bit to process here. For the second time in his short, almost nineteen years on this planet, he has discovered a fantastically large lie in his midst.

Finally, he decides, it’s time.

 

* * *

 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jean says when Nino opens the door to his apartment. “That has to be said first.”

The look in Nino’s eyes can only be described as tortured.

“I’ve lied to you your entire life.”

“So did my mother, but I don’t hold that against my memory of her.”

It’s enough to silence Nino, who steps back and wordlessly gestures for Jean to come in. He does so, and steps into the small living room space of the studio. Standing in the center of Nino’s apartment, Jean reaches out and tentatively places a hand on Nino’s shoulder.

“What do you feel, then?” Nino dares to ask. Evidently, he has calmed down considerably. Jean knows he is faking composure for his sake. Still, even now – doing all he can for Jean’s sake. “What do you feel if you aren’t angry?”

“Sadness.”

“Because I lied.”

“Because you had to give up so much for me.”

“I have never, not even for a second, resented you.”

Jean steps back, turns around, walks a little further. He feels so incredibly full of _something_ and he doesn’t know _what_. It is the feeling of knowing that their dynamic has changed significantly, this is just the way it has to be, and now he is struck with the notion that he will be the one learning to be patient from now on, and Nino will be the one keeping him waiting.

“No one should have to give up their life like that.”

“It gave me purpose, Jean. I don’t resent my father, or the life he gave me. I don’t resent you.”

When their eyes meet again, Jean knows that Nino sees the wetness in his eyes.

“You would’ve found a purpose anywhere. You should’ve been allowed to find your own.”

 

* * *

 

They get on the underground train and get off at the stop closest to the beach. It takes them a good thirty minutes to walk there still, through the hustle of San Francisco night life, but it’s better than having to pay for a city taxi this late at night. No words are exchanged between them throughout it all. Before they venture out to the sand, they stop at a liquor store. Nino buys a bottle of rum and a pack of cigarettes. Jean holds the cigarettes and Nino holds the rum. They stumble, even still sober, over the rocky terrain necessary to cross before they can sit down near the shore and watch the waves come dangerously close. The area is meant for things like this: Late night ventures, long conversations well into the early hours of the morning. When families want to take a day trip to the beach, they aren’t thinking about little nooks like this one.

It says something that Nino actually accepts the cigarettes when Jean offers one. It is Jean’s hands that are trembling slightly when he reaches out to light the little thing for Nino, an odd sensation burning in his throat when he sees Nino inhale, slowly, and then release the puff of smoke lazily.

As they begin passing the bottle between them, side by side, Nino says, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, “So where does this leave us?”

Jean says, “What do you mean?”

“I understand if you can’t continue being friends. I’m too connected to the Dowa family, I’ll remind you of your ancestry. You can’t be okay with that.”

“I’m not okay with losing you.”

 _Selfish,_ Jean thinks.

Nino hands him the bottle then, and Jean takes his third swig.

“I am,” says Nino, “happy to hear that.”

Goddamn, but Jean feels selfish. Two decades spent following him, and here he is asking Nino to continue with that.

So he makes his own choice, because he has had the privilege longer than Nino has and he knows how to do it.

“But I don’t want you to have to follow me anymore, either. You can make the choice to not stay with me.”

They’re quiet then. The bottle sits forgotten, the cigarettes are between their fingers. Jean is almost down to the filter, but Nino neglects his for so long that it stops burning.

“Nah.”

A pause. “What?”

“I choose to stay with you.” Nino makes a point of not looking at Jean. “That’s my choice, but I’ll be by your side instead of following you.”

Jean blinks. “Oh. Good.”

Finally they can look at each other again, the prolonged tense moment passing like it was never there.

“So noble, Jean. Did you really think I wouldn’t choose your friendship?”

“I don’t know. How can I know what someone in your crazy situation would do?”

“Have more faith in me. You know you’re my…”

He trails off. Then, after a few seconds, Nino finishes with, “My partner in crime.”

Jean smiles. What else can he do? He’s happy.

“Yeah. I know.”

Sometime after that they must fall asleep side by side on the cold sand, because when Jean wakes up dawn is breaking and the rising sun makes him realize that he is on his side and facing a flat, sleeping Nino.

It tears at him, just a little.

 

* * *

 

 **From: Lotta Otus [lottaotus@gmail.com]** **  
To: Jean Otus [jean-otus@gmail.com]**  
**CC: NINO R. [photographybynino@...]**

_May 21 5:06 PM_

Jean, don’t be mad but here are two round-trip tickets for a week’s stay here in Manhattan. I know you hate having Grandfather spend money on you, but I swear he did this without my knowledge and it’s such a waste if you refuse to use them.

I don’t have classes for my summer program during the last week of June, and when I mentioned to Grandpa that I wanted to visit you during that time he insisted on having you visit instead because it’s been so long since he’s seen you. By now he knows that you and I know about Nino, and he’s really happy that you two are such good friends so of course he wants him to come as well! Now you have no excuse to not come!

Nino is getting this email too, so don’t even try and refuse. If you don’t come, I’ll never forgive you! Your darling sister and favorite cousin are crazy without you. Please come and don’t be fussy about it.

Sending my love always,

Lotta

**2 ATTACHMENTS INCLUDED**

 

* * *

 

_June – 2 years, 11 months until graduation._

The boy’s face is so ashen with nervousness, Jean fears he might evaporate right before them in the hotel lobby. His hair is neatly combed, button-up shirt slightly askew. It gives away how careful he was about looking put together – overly careful to the point of noticeability, leaving a few unintentional errors in that speak of uneven, shaking hands.

“I’m Rail. Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he tells Jean, hand out in greeting and head slightly bowed. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

 _I haven’t_ , Jean wants to respond. But he knows that Lotta is observing them with hyper-intensity, and if he makes the “wrong” move he’ll never hear the end of it, he knows. So he doesn’t smile, but he does shake the younger boy’s hand with a purposeful rigor.

Later, when he and Lotta are alone, he gives her one look and she is instantly aware of what is on his mind.

“You’re mad I didn’t tell you I was dating Rail.”

“Annoyed more than angry.”

They venture out into one of the hotel’s gardens, a quiet one that receives far less visitors than the larger ones placed in centralized locations. Lotta pokes at a chrysanthemum looming over her head in a hanging vase, then they continue down the cobbled path. Above them is a glass ceiling that allows for a good view of the orange dusk sky.

When Lotta looks up at Jean, her face is highlighted by the orange sky. It alarms Jean that he sees less of Lotta each day and more of Schnee, the same crinkle in their cheeks. As Lotta has grown older, her hair has begun to curl towards her neck. Her eyes have darkened, blue eyes like a storm instead of clear day. They’ve never seen photographs of their mother as a teenager, though Jean is willing to bet that Lotta is the mirror image of Schnee Otus at sixteen.

“I really like him,” she whispers. “I know he’s older, and he’s leaving to college next year, and I have no idea what we’re going to do but…I like him.”

He knows of worse age differences to speak of, so all he does is sigh and shrug. “I don’t control you, Lotta. You don’t need my approval to have a boyfriend.”

“But I’d like to have it anyway.”

“Then you have it.”

She takes his hands between them, smile radiating like the setting sun.

“I’m _really_ happy, Jean.”

“If you’re happy, I am too.”

“I want you to say that and mean it, though.” Biting her lip, she lets go of his hands and goes to sit on a wooden bench in the center of the garden. Jean lingers, then follows. He doesn’t sit, there’s too much on his mind. It keeps him restless. One wouldn’t really know from looking at him just how much is brewing in his mind.

Nino and Jean left San Francisco last night, and arrived in New York early this morning. Thus far, he has been able to avoid having to socialize with his family, minus Lotta. Tonight, he will be obligated to have dinner with, among other relatives, Falke and Schwan. Most of the Dowa family members whose only obligations in life are to act as decent socialites, maybe take on a few causes and make sporadic keynote appearances, are off in exotic locations for the summer. Schwan is always here, though. The only education and experiences he could possibly need are all to be had in the Dowa kingdom, which he will soon control – with, it would appear, Lotta as a necessary background figure orchestrating everything.

And Nino will be there, which should be enough to keep him sane.

But Nino’s presence is getting less effective when it comes to doing that.

“Jean? Were you listening?” Lotta’s voice coaxes him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry.” He sits down next to her, digging into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Jet lag.”

She nods, understanding.

“You know, Schwan isn’t so bad nowadays,” Lotta pipes up. Evidently, she has noticed that he wishes not to speak of his happiness and search for it, but instead of things that will distract him. “He’s growing up.”

“Took him a long time.”

They share a telling look between them.

“Not everyone is forced to grow up early.”

“I’ll give him that,” says Jean, “but he’s still the heir to a kingdom.”

“So are we.” Her voice is weak, careful.

“Mom left for a reason, Lotta.”

“And as long as you chase that reason, you’ll stay away from us?”

Another look. Surely she can see the strangled pain in his eyes, the irises filled with a clearer blue than Lotta’s will ever be again. Surely she knows how much he resents his own stubborn will, his own endless pursuit of a great unknown that may very well never have existed, or at least does not exist for him to find.

She puts a hand over his between their seats on the bench.

“I understand you, I do, but…I love you, and I want to know if you would ever come back.”

“There’s nothing for me here, Lotta.”

“There are great things to be done here, Jean. We can help do them.”

Jean doesn’t move his hand away. He does, however, shake his head.

“You can do them. I can’t.”

 

* * *

 

Falke cannot make it to dinner. He has an urgent business matter to attend to in Lisbon. Jean then learns that no one else is here besides Schwan and, inevitably, Magie. It’s a relief and a burden all at once. The only other relative he has spoken to in earnest in Schwan’s mother, his aunt and Schnee’s younger sister, who finds it in herself to pop in every now and then between trips to Paris and trips to Amsterdam, trips to here and there. She’s a mean-faced woman who can be kind, who genuinely _is_ kind, but her innocent shallowness leaves for much to be desired.

“We can make this quick,” Schwan says when he arrives (late) with his bodyguard-in-training in tow and takes a seat across from Nino, whom he doesn’t seem to notice. “All we have to do is take a nice photo by the Dowa Hotel sign. I’m sure Grandfather will be very pleased to be see everyone playing nice.”

“Schwan,” is uttered in tandem by Magie and Lotta. A peeved look crosses over his face, sits there, and stays there.

“Alright, fine. A nice, prolonged family dinner.” The blonde boy fixes Jean with an intense look, then puts his face and his hands and sighs. “We’re _all_ happy with that?”

“Have you grown?” is all Jean says.

“Five inches since you last saw me, thank you. I had a growth spurt.”

“Ah.”

At last the little heir notices the newcomer, who has had a carefully neutral expression throughout the entirety of this exchange. “And you are…?”

“Nino. A friend of Jean’s,” says Nino before Jean can intercede and introduce them.

This clearly fails to impress Schwan at all, as he shrugs and begins to motion over for a waiter to come and take their orders now that the entire party has arrived and been seated.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” says Magie, sheepish. “Schwan hasn’t outgrown his spoiled brat phase yet. I’m working on it, though.”

“He’s made significant progress, I’d say,” adds Lotta, her smile bright and genuine.

“Don’t tag team me at the dinner table,” whines Schwan. That’s that, and then they order. As the drinks are served, Magie nods at Nino.

“It’s nice to meet one of Jean’s college friends,” he says, “I’m Magie, Schwan’s bodyguard.”

“In training,” emphasizes Schwan, a wagging finger in the air. “Right now you’re just Magie.”

The blue-haired boy seems utterly unfazed. Nino voices his own “pleasure to meet you”, and then Magie looks at Jean.

“You look well, Master Otus. How was your first year away?”

Jean grimaces, though he knows the boy has no malicious intent. “I’m not one of your employers. It’s just Jean.”

“You’re Master Falke’s grandson, and you’re of age,” counters Magie. “It’s tradition.”

“But you’re basically family, Magie,” says Lotta, crinkling her nose.

A little grin spreads across Jean’s lips, barely there. “Does that mean you’ll call Schwan ‘Master’ after he turns eighteen?”

“God, I hope not,” says Schwan at the same time that Magie nods and says, “Yes.”

“I thought you’d be into that.” Jean’s teasing lilt is subtle, but present.

“From other people, not from _Magie_.”

Again, Magie gives away no emotion with his expression. “What are you both studying at college?”

“English,” says Jean. Curt, simple. He sees no need to elaborate.

Nino takes that as his cue to answer, and he clears his throat before speaking. “I’m an art student, I do photography.”

Though Schwan doesn’t scoff, the ridicule flashes through the slight roll of his eyes. What is an art student to the heir of a business mogul? That makes Jean prickle a bit; he doesn’t care what his cousin thinks of him, but he has always made a point of looking out for any biting remarks he might make towards Lotta.

Schwan likes Lotta, in his odd way. He rarely snaps at her the way he snaps at Jean.

Something tells Jean that this same privilege won’t be granted to Nino for the sole reason that he is Jean’s friend, thereby inevitably tying Schwan’s perception of him to the one he has of Jean.

Jean will be damned if Schwan dares speak a harsh word towards him tonight.

“Oh, then you can take the group photo of Schwan, Jean, and Lotta later,” suggests Magie. He’s overenthusiastic, but Nino seems to appreciate it.

“You don’t need a professional photographer to take an Instagram photo.” Now Schwan does scoff.

“Why would it go on Instagram?” Jean doesn’t use much social media himself, but he knows Nico uses said website to share some of his professional shots.

“Because Grandfather has recently started sharing family photos on his social media accounts. It’s good for the company image.” There’s an unspoken _duh_ tacked onto the end of his sentence.

“Then shouldn’t it be of professional quality?” Magie retorts, remaining composed.

Schwan can’t find anything to say to that. He visibly contemplates, and comes up empty.

“Any photo that Nino takes will definitely look professional,” insists Lotta.

Nino smiles. “Well, I’m not a professional photographer.”

“Yet,” tacks on Jean, lifting his cup and taking a sip of his previously untouched Coke.

The smile moves in his direction. It makes him confusedly warm.

“What about you, Jean?” Magie’s interjection is interrupted. Jean’s gaze moves away from his friend and towards the younger boy.

“Hmm?”

“What are you planning on doing with your degree?”

This is a dreaded question that makes college students cower in terror. But Jean knows that Magie is only trying to be nice, his wide eyes giving away what appears to be real interest.

“I’m not sure yet. Journalism is my concentration.”

He hates to look uncertain in front of Schwan, who has had his entire life planned out for him since the moment he was born. At the same time, he knows very well that he would hate being in his cousin’s place.

(Jean still thinks he’s a brat.)

“You write? What do you write?”

All eyes on him has never been something he enjoys. Even Schwan is looking at him.

“Ah. Different things.”

“Like what?”

“For now, articles, mostly mock ones.”

“Would you write for a newspaper? I’m sure Master Falke has connections to the _New York Times_ , perhaps you could—”

“Can this interrogation end already?” interjects Schwan. It surprises everyone. The table is silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean sees that their sudden lack of conversation has caught Mohnt’s attention a few tables over. He wonders if he’ll report all of this to Falke later.

“Schwan,” whispers Magie.

The single utterance of his name quells him. Dinner goes relatively smoothly, though Jean opts to speak only to Nino, on occasion, for the rest of it.

Nino does take a photo of them, and it does turn out nice.

Lotta stands with Jean and Schwan on either side of her. Jean does his best to smile.

 

* * *

 

**falkedowaii**

[ photo ]

7,000 likes

CAPTION: Mr. Dowa loves seeing his family spend and enjoy time together. Have an excellent summer on behalf of the Dowa family! – Dowa, Inc. Publicity Team (This message has been approved by Mr. Falke Dowa II.) ft. @lotta13 @schwandawo

_7 HOURS AGO_

 

* * *

 

Jean murmurs, “They didn’t even give you credit.”

Nino is flat on his stomach, eyes focused on something playing from the television in Jean’s hotel room. They aren’t sharing one, but Nino has come over to make sure that Jean gets ready in time for the Dowa summer company banquet. At Jean’s comment, he laughs.

“You know I don’t care about that.”

“Still,” he mutters, more to himself now than to Nino. He walks over and hands his friend’s the phone back, then stalks back towards the bathroom.

A knock at the door stops him in his tracks. He looks over at Nino.

“Lotta?” suggests Nino. Jean shrugs.

When he goes to answer it, the person standing before him has to be the last person he expected to find willingly coming to see him.

“Schwan?”

The younger boy’s tie is askew. His dress shirt is lacking the coverage of a tuxedo jacket.

“You and I don’t have any real feud,” it all comes out in a hushed rush, “but we will if you don’t—”

He cuts himself off, gritting his teeth and clenching his teeth tightly. Jean has never seen the boy so red, so visible with – with _rage_. He’s seen him throw tantrums, seen him send perfectly good plates and beverages back, seen him threaten strangers who bump into him, but he has never seen him _angry_.

“If I don’t what, Schwan?”

The look that passes between them is the first one of almost-hatred that has ever passed between them.

“Make him stop looking at you like that, do something that makes him stop asking about you and talking about you. I don’t care what you do, but do it.”

Then Schwan does something else that Jean has never seen do.

He runs away. Jean follows him with his eyes, sees him turn around the corner.

The thing about Schwan Dowa is that he does not flee. He faces his challenges headfirst – a rough habit that has gotten him in many unfortunate situations.

Jean takes a deep breath. He rubs at his temple. Closing the door, he slumps against the inside part of it.  

This family is a force to be reckoned with.

 

* * *

 

[ Text ] From: Mauve

6:09 PM – Grossular sighting in downtown. Guess who was with him?

[ Text ] To: Mauve

6:15 PM – Bold of them.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
6:19 PM – I’ll say. How’s New York?

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
6:21 PM – Humid.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
6:23 PM – Stay hydrated, kid.

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
6:25 PM – Say hi to Nino for me.

[ Text ] To: Mauve  
6:27 PM – ATTACHED: 1 IMAGE

[ Text ] From: Mauve  
6:30 PM – Wow, tell him he should never wear anything that isn’t that suit.

 

* * *

 

Nino’s pale, smooth hands are clasped between Falke’s wrinkled ones. The lines on his palms match the ones etched into his aged face.

“My boy, I am so glad you could make it up here.” The old man’s eyes flicker over to his grandson, who stands next to the taller, older man. “Both of you being here means the world to me.”

A few more pleasantries are exchanged. Jean is able to breathe better when his grandfather finally moves away, obligations in his midst. There are more important people to speak to than Jean and Nino, and the former is glad for it.

“I get the invitation for this event every year,” remarks Nino. He’s holding a glass of red wine in his hand. When he sees Jean eye it, he hands it over. A waiter passes by with another tray from which Nino plucks another, choosing white this time. They both drink with more haste than is necessary.

“You never came before?”

“No. Too busy in New Hampshire.”

“We might have met sooner if you had come.”

Nino shrugs. “It turned out alright the way it happened.”

“Yeah,” says Jean. “Guess it did.”

They walk over to the table of _hors d'oeuvres_. From here, Jean can see that Lotta is across the room with Rail. Their height difference, he has to admit, is endearing. She looks up at him happily, and Rail has the most interesting goofy smile on his face. It’s a bit embarrassing to witness. Jean is snapped out of his reverie when the click of a camera goes off, flash and all. Nino seems to be especially pleased with whatever image of Jean’s face he has just captured.

Magie comes over then. It’s the first time within the timeframe that Jean has known the boy that he is not walking a slight step behind Schwan.

“Hi Jean, Nino.” His smile is calm, small. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Jean is, naturally, not always expected to show up at official Dowa events. 

“I had to put up a fight,” Nino says, a laugh in his tone, “but I got him here. Where’s the ‘young master’?”

“Oh, I think he might be sick,” says Magie. “He said he wasn’t feeling up to coming just yet, though he may show up later. It’s important for him to attend these events.”

Raising a quizzical brow, Jean says, “You came alone?”

“Technically, I was invited as a family friend,” explains Magie. He’s never been the type to enjoy discussing his personal life, and it shows. “My whole family is here, so I went ahead and left without him.”

There are flutes of champagne sitting next to the finger foods. Jean picks one up and offers it to the younger boy.

“No, thank you.”

Nino gathers his own. They clink their cups together. They drink.

The awkward silence is broken by Magie, who says, “Jean, I saw some journalists here. Would you like to go and speak with him?”

“Any connection helps,” says Nino, giving Jean a pointed look.

Convinced that the world is conspiring against him, Jean is about to agree.

Just past Magie’s shoulder, Schwan can be seen entering from one of the many doors leading into the lavish circular ballroom. The orchestra finishes their cheerful song, and transitions into something that sounds like a waltz in the minor key. Jean makes eye contact with his cousin, whose tie is neat now. His hair is gelled perfectly on his head. He is walking towards Jean, Nino, and Magie with intention.

Magie’s eyes are wide, looking up at Jean.

 _God, he’s just a kid_.

(Hypocrite.)

He does it like it’s nothing, like it’s as easy to do as taking a breath and letting it out. Nino’s hand is unresponsive when he clasps it, but warm in his hold. The indents are easy to memorize. It feels like Jean has always known this feeling, he simply hasn’t been able to do anything about it or recognize it.

“I think I’ll leave early,” he says as Schwan comes into range of hearing him, “but thanks.”

Magie’s mouth opens, closes, stays shut. He looks embarrassed, which in turn embarrasses Jean. But there’s nothing more to be done. He and Schwan maintain eye contact for a moment longer, and when the younger boy comes to stand beside Magie, Jean pulls Nino along with him. He doesn’t let go of his hand until they have exited into a long hallway, which is still full of people but empty of Schwan and Magie.

“What was that about?” Nino doesn’t sound upset. He sounds confused, however. A little frustration is present as well, in that question.

“Long story.” Jean makes a beeline for the nearest glass door that leads outside. The glamorous party is being held on the opposite side of the hotel from the side where Jean and Nino’s rooms are. All he wants to do is head back and sleep away this headache, but the maids don’t like smelling his incessant cigarette smoke and if he doesn’t have one in his mouth within the next two minutes he is certain to implode then and there.

“We’ve got time,” Nino says, stepping out into the hot night air with him.

The lighter isn’t having it. It flickers once, twice, then gives out. Jean clicks at it until his thumb has begun to develop the beginnings of a callus.

“Damn,” he murmurs under his breath, giving up and tucking the lighter away into his suit pant pockets. “Do you have a lighter?”

“Jean.” Nino steps forward and tugs the cigarette out of Jean’s almost shaking fingers. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Is there something wrong with me holding your hand?”

“That’s not it,” and there is hurt in those bespectacled eyes as they gaze downwards at Jean’s shorter stature.

He adds, hushed, “You’re aware of my preference.”

“I’ve never _actually_ told you mine.”

“Why would it matter to me of all people that you like men?”

 _Because it goes beyond that_.

 _Because you’re my preference_.

“I’m going to go buy a lighter.”

Nino’s hand on his shoulder stops him. “You shouldn’t be smoking if you’re upset. Is this about being here? Do you want to go home early?”

He considers this. “You’d go back with me?”

“Of course.”

It’s a futile situation, though. “Lotta will be disappointed.”

“Yes, there’s that to think about.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Jean shuffles his stature so that Nino isn’t holding him anymore. “Leaving would fix nothing.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

Words can’t say it. Instead Jean grabs Nino’s tie, pulls him as close as his strength will allow. His breath is hitched, probably hot against Nino’s neck as he looks. The top of his head grazes Nino’s chin. It’s an awkward angle – an inch away from being chest to chest, one hand on his cigarette box and the other on Nino’s tie.

“Jean.” A name and a beg all at once.

When he touches Nino’s lips with his own, it’s a dry and close-lipped kiss. Jean hasn’t kissed anyone else in his life, but he knows enough to recognize that Nino is a statue in his grasp. He kisses him anyway, dropping the cigarettes and putting his other hand on Nino’s cheek.

 _Warm. Impossibly warm_.

The unthinkable happens. It begins with a hand in his hair.

 _Soft. Impossibly soft_.

Nino’s fingers fidget on his neck, settle and stroke. He touches Jean with quivers that say _I’m scared you’ll disappear if I press too hard_ ; he kisses back with fragility, so sweet that Jean thinks he may be able to live off it. May be able to overdose on it. 

Far too soon, Nino pushes Jean with the same care. His eyes are closed. Jean isn’t sure he’d able to look him in the eye right now, anyway.

“If there will ever be a time for this,” Nino whispers, “it isn’t now.”

“You don’t want this.” Jean steps back, hands flying off Nino. He’ll burn if he continues to touch him.

“This isn’t the time.”

“There will never be a right time.”

He picks up his cigarettes and leaves. Nino doesn’t follow, and Jean pretends that does nothing to hurt him, pretends he wasn’t the one who told him to stop doing that, pretends this isn’t his fault, pretends he isn’t falling in love at a rate that has him choking on air, has him struggling to breathe.

 

* * *

 

This past semester, Jean took a linguistics seminar on the history of Romance languages. One lecture covered the different ways in which the concept of longing has been described in these different linguistic traditions, and how they are similar and different between certain lexicons.

 _Speakers of Portuguese use the word “saudade” to denote an intense sense of loss. Its meaning, in its very basic form, suggests that one misses someone_ , said the class reader. _To say “eu sinto saudade de você” (Literal translation: I miss you) is to say that one feels the loss of someone at the highest level possible. Most often, to feel “saudade” suggests that which has been lost cannot be recovered._

* * *

 

 

Rail finds him, drunk, in the hotel lobby.

“Lotta, ahem, is looking for you.”

Jean is usually good at looking sober. Tonight, he isn’t. “I can’t remember how to get to my room.”

“I can help. If you want.”

Since there is no other choice, Jean stands from the soft orange chair. He stumbles a bit, but manages to straighten out.

“Can we go without Lotta?” He looks at the floor, not at Rail.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll text her later and let her know you’re back in your room.”

It’s in that moment that Jean truly grants Rail and Lotta his blessing.


	6. When the World Grows Honest

_“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._   
_These, our bodies, possessed by light._   
_Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”_

Richard Siken

 

Being that their friendship is both (a) not ceremonial, with few exceptions and (b) absolutely mandatory for both of them, Jean and Nino move on with relative ease.

Hungover with heads aching and throbbing. They meet in the hallway, both on their way to each other’s room.

“Let’s not,” Jean says.

“I agree,” Nino says.

So they don’t.

They go back to California, where their shared apartment is ready for move-in on the first of July. The apartment starts to look lived in by the end of the month. School starts in early August. Jean and Nino are best friends and the Earth continues to spin.

 

* * *

 

_September – 2 years, 8 months until graduation._

 

“Completely off the record,” Mauve begins, teeth gritted, knuckles white, “let it be known to you and you only that I’m going to _murder_ that idiot.”

In front of Jean is an open laptop. The screen declares the bold headline that has called for this impromptu meeting in Mauve’s office.

 _Local university professors implicated in money laundering scandal_ , _rumors of a coup arise._

The article goes on to paint a scathing image of Professors Grossular and Lilium, recounting the previous scandal regarding their alleged affair and the subsequent discovery that Lilium was confirmed to be plotting against the Dean of the school.

 _A credible but anonymous source has confirmed the allegations that Professor Lilium intended to put the blame on the current Dean, as he would be considered “next in line” for, at the very least, a nomination for said position_.

“I think he would have found a way to blame Grossular as well,” Jean remarks.

“Of course he would have. Lilium isn’t a fool, but apparently Grossular is. The two would have to go head to head in the event of the Dean being disposed of, and only one of them actually cares about having that power.” Mauve kicks her heels off and takes a seat, leaning her chair back as far as it will go. “I wanted to let you know about all this before the local newspapers caught on, but I was a little too late.”

“This is a lot,” Jean murmurs. He closes the laptop and fixes his mentor with a questioning stare. “Can he get out of this?”

“We already had a department meeting. In short, yes. But he’s stepping down as Chair.”

Now Jean gets it. He scratches behind his ear and shakes his head. “They want you to take the position.”

“I’m a very safe option, guaranteed to be hotheaded enough to lead faculty but not hotheaded enough to stir up controversy. I’m considered ‘moderate’.”

“Well, you’ll do a good job.”

“I know that. This is still a weird situation. I don’t like this, Jean, it’s made me distrustful,” she tells him. A manicured hand pulls a cigarette and electronic lighter from her blazer pocket. Seasoned, she has it lit within a matter of second. Only after she’s taking her first drag does she shove one over at Jean, who takes it – and the lighter, which confuses him for a second – gladly.

She takes another drag, letting the smoke cloud around her face intentionally. “I’m my own boss now. Technically, I’m already Interim Chair. The Dean will sign the paperwork next week that makes me the actual Chair. Damn those non-smokers and their fear of secondhand smoke.”

“Will you continue mentoring?”

“For this semester, yes. Everything is up in the air after that, but no one wants to stir the pot any further after this.”

“I don’t know about everyone else,” Jean says, “but I know you’ll be fine.”

Mauve shakes her head. She hands him another cigarette. A to-go present.

“If I had the same faith in myself that you have in me, I think I could conquer the world.”

Jean smiles at her, deeper than he ever has. “You don’t need anything from me to do that.”

 

* * *

 

_November – 2 years, 6 months until graduation._

 

He starts dating. It’s the second thing that has happened to him since meeting Nino that he has not outwardly told Nino.

(The first is a given.)

Sometimes he has dreams where there are hands gripping his hair and then moving down to cup his face between them. The eyes paired with those hands could belong to Grossular or Nino. Jean doesn’t dwell on those dreams when he’s awake; if he assigns them significance, it would set him back. As it is, he has stopped remembering what it felt like to have Nino’s hands on his neck. He’s at a point where he can reach into his pajama bottoms late at night and be scientific about it, humid New York air a distant feeling that he may as well have never felt in his life. This doesn’t hurt him.

It doesn’t make him feel much of anything.

Number One is another candidate for an Honors English degree. His name is Timothy and he takes Jean to the university museum and talks his ear off about Monet even though there are no Monet pieces being displayed in the low budget facility, free for anyone with a university ID and consequently visited most often by those who do not pay. They drink iced lattes at the museum café and Jean politely answers questions about his background with as much ambiguity as possible. When Timothy holds his hand after insisting on walking him home, Jean lets him. He also lets Timothy kiss him a block before reaching his and Nino’s apartment building.

Timothy steps back when Jean fails to respond. His dark brown eyes and olive skin and long auburn hair are so beautiful. Jean wants to _want_ him.

“Did I read this wrong?” He murmurs. Jean can only imagine the look on his own face – the one that makes Timothy leave hastily.

They don’t call each other after that.

Number two and number three are quick, hardly noteworthy. One is younger and one is older, and Jean can’t actually remember either of their full names or majors.

Nino catches on with Number Four.

“Got an exciting date?”

From where he is standing in front of the living room mirror, Jean can see Nino standing behind him and wearing an amused smirk. It makes him flinch when a flash reveals the photo he has just taken of him, hand fidgeting on his slightly damp hair in an attempt to style it.

“I just have plans.”

“Plans that call for an ironed shirt and cologne?”

“You caught me,” mutters Jean. He finishes shuffling his hair around and turns. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Call me if you’d like to have alone time tonight!” Nino calls after his retreating figure.

“That’s not going to happen.”

As he closes the door, he can hear Nino say, “Aw, believe in yourself a little more, Jean.”

Of course Jean is aware that at some point or another they would have to acknowledge that Jean has been, for lack of a better descriptor, shopping the love market.

Number Four, a senior art student named Nolan, is different.

They go to a little alcove of an Italian restaurant in the downtown portion of the college town. Nolan holds Jean’s hand under the table for most of the time that they are waiting to be served, and later lightly strokes his thigh every now and then. It’s a small table, and both of them are fairly tall. Every time Jean moves his knee, he brushes up against the other man’s leg.

“I have a single room because I’m an RA,” Nolan tells him. He bought them a bottle of wine that they finished between them by the time that they had also cleared their plates. Jean feels looser than usual, feels like there is something imminent hanging onto this evening and he accepts it. Sweet white wine wraps itself around his forced flirtations, all the while in the back of his mind a wisp of thoughts begging him to proceed with caution because Nolan’s words have something between the lines that he can read very easily.

So he says yes.

Jean doesn’t tell him that he’s never done this before, he decides he’ll figure it out along the way. He grips Nolan’s tie with a familiar urge when they kiss for the first time. What isn’t familiar is how quickly their mouths open against one another’s; the taller student pushes him onto his bed, and Jean lets him take control. They move against each other. Jean stares at the familiar dormitory ceiling until he sees unfamiliar stars. He feels slick fingers in a place he has never felt them. He says _yes_ over and over, forms a harmony with another chorus of _yes_. In the moonlight he can pretend that black hair is a different shade, but there is nothing to be done about the dark eyes that get no lighter as they stare into Jean’s.

It feels good until it feels like nothing at all and he’s lying awake next to a sleeping body who has an arm over Jean’s bare chest. The only reason he doesn’t leave then and there, before the other man can wake up, is because campus housing is a twenty minute walk from his apartment complex and it’s three in the morning.

Nolan wakes up around the same time Jean is putting his clothes on, groggy and cranky after only getting three hours of sleep. It’s seven.

“Hey, listen,” says Nolan, awkwardly, “I’m not looking for…anything.”

“Don’t worry,” says Jean. “Neither am I.”

There’s no kiss goodbye, which is for the better. Jean walks home with a bad case of bedhead and an unjustified sense of guilt brewing in the pit of his slightly upset stomach.

The radio is playing from the kitchen when he opens the door.

 _Hey now, hey now,_ the singer croons, _don’t dream it’s over. Hey now, hey now._

“Lots of fun last night?” Nino emerges. He winks at him and there’s a box of pancake mix in one of his hands. If he is going to tease him further, he must decide against it when he sees the strange expression on Jean’s face.

Shuffling past Nino and into the kitchen, Jean asks, “Do we have strawberries for those pancakes?”

He’d really like to say, _I chose to spend last night with the wrong art student_.

“As if you need to ask. There are always strawberries if you’re around.”

“Good,” Jean says. They sit, they have breakfast. It’s comfortable and Jean counts his lucky stars that Nino is the type of friend that knows when he should not pry.

 

* * *

 

_December – 2 years, 5 months until graduation._

 

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
4:45 PM – Rail got early admission to Columbia!!

[ Text ] To: Lotta   
4:48 PM – That’s great, Nino and I send our congratulations

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
4:49 – Aww lol you guys sound like a married couple

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:19 PM – Omg Jean you know I am kidding

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:20 PM – Also I know you don’t like gossip but I think Magie and Schwan are in a relationship and I don’t know what that means for Magie’s status as a bodyguard, also have no idea re: Grandfather’s social views to be honest

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:21 PM – I liked a girl in middle school, do you think same-sex attraction runs in the Dowa family??

[ Text ] To: Lotta   
5:22 PM – Let’s agree to never discuss these things again.

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:24 PM – You’re so secretive with me Jean

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:26 PM – I worry that you will explode one day

[ Text ] To: Lotta   
5:30 PM – Bye Lotta

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
5:32 – Don’t be a strangerrrr okay

[ Text ] From: Ruben M.   
5:32 PM – we still on tonight??

[ Text ] To: Ruben M.   
5:33 PM – Yes.

 

* * *

 

Ruben is Number Seven, a substantial upgrade from Number Five (“Pizza Breath”) and Number Six (who dumped lung cancer pamphlets on his desk the afternoon following their disastrous date) and he is charming. He makes Jean believe that there’s hope for an actual relationship; this being said, he isn’t sure that’s what he wants.

Still. It’d be nice to try.

They’re looking out at the marina, San Francisco only a few leagues away, and the sun is setting. Jean sees Ruben’s hand splayed across the wooden fence separating them from rocks and water, and he carefully takes it. The response is enthusiastic. Jean feels warm.

“So,” Ruben begins, “I did an interesting project for sociology this semester, on the children of legacy families in the United States.”

This is when Jean goes numb.

But he doesn’t say anything. He lets Ruben continue.

“One of the families I looked into was the Dowa family, for obvious reasons. I mean, they’re the _Dowa_. But you know, they’ve traditionally had that super strict ‘no socialites until eighteen’ thing, which made that part of my research really hard until I found out about niche tabloid coverage. That’s when I saw your name, which I thought must be a coincidence, until I found this one Instagram post, which was—”

“Stop.” Jean rips his hand away and departs with urgency, Ruben following at his heels.

“Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t.

“I swear I didn’t know about your lineage when I asked you out,” Ruben protests, hand loosely grasping at the back of Jean’s sleeve. “Come on, I’m sorry, I won’t bring it up again.”

“You already did,” Jean grits out, pushing the hand away.

 _Otus_. _Otus_.

 _Not Dowa_.

 

* * *

 

“So he knew about Grandfather? Do you think any of your other classmates know?”

Lotta’s face looks comically small on his phone screen. Jean shakes his head. “No one has ever brought it up before now, but probably.”

“I’m sorry, Jean. You know he’s just getting more sentimental with age, he regrets not having been able to spend time with us and he likes having proof that his grandchildren are out there being a family.”

“You and Schwan are. I’m here.”

“Still family, though.”

“I thought there were rules about not pushing Dowa children into the public eye.”

“Well, the rules don’t really apply to Schwan and I,” explains Lotta, sighing. “He’s always been groomed to be visible to the world and the media. Now that I’ve made my choice, so am I. And you’re nineteen now.”

On his laptop, Jean scrolls through the endless articles that speak of anything relating to the Dowa company or family. Lotta and Schwan are mentioned constantly, with the latter having far more exposure – his sister tends to be an after note, though there are a few gossip websites that feature blurry photos of her walking down the street with Schwan and Magie. Sometimes Rail is there. Luckily, there are no romantic speculations up; being that Lotta and Schwan are still underage, any media attention granted to them is mostly about their education and their involvement with their grandfather’s company.

“Why didn’t I ever think to check these?” Jean continues scrolling. His interest in journalism isn’t as passionate as he’d like to believe; truthfully, he studies it for the prestige, but has every intention of moving forward with other pursuits. Online media completely slips by him. As he scrolls, he finds himself every now and then, but generally only as “Falke Dowa’s estranged grandson”. “And why don’t they talk about me more?”

“When you went to college, Grandfather asked the media to let you focus on your studies. I guess they’re sympathetic because of what happened to Mom and Dad.”

“What? When?”

“You’re really disconnected, Jean.” Lotta sighs, shifting her phone so that she can lay her head down on her pillow. “He had this big press conference about a big issue I can’t remember and people asked him about you and he said he didn’t want to disclose your school of choice, etc. It was a whole _thing_. I mean, I’m sure there are journalists out there who have found out where you are. But they haven’t seen any need to report on you, that’s what matters. You lie low by nature.”

“He hasn’t shown that same discretion lately.”

“I told you he’s getting more sentimental with age. He misses what could have been. You know he cares about you. If this really worries you, I could talk to him?”

“Don’t. It’ll just…confuse things more.”

“I’m done scouring Twitter, Facebook, and all major news websites,” announces Nino, emerging from the kitchen with his laptop in both hands. “You have been mentioned, but only by gossip networks. No mention of the university, it seems.”

“Is it only a matter of time?” This was never what Jean wanted, though now he can’t believe that he ever thought there would be anything protecting him from it. For him, there was no elegant à la Schnee Otus escape act.

How foolish to think he would be granted the same anonymity.

“Jean, just take things one step at a time.” Lotta is firm. “You’ve only been asked about this _one_ time. How much influence do you really think your social status has over there?”

“She’s right,” chimes in Nino. He sets down his laptop, entering the kitchen again, and Jean hears the sounds of trash bags being readied to be taken out. From there, he adds, “No matter what, you’re still Jean Otus here.”

“That might not last much longer. He did a _project_.”

“For a niche class. Anyway, I’ll be back,” says Nino, emerging from the kitchen, trash bags in tow and heading towards the front door.

“I get that you’re technically not ‘panicking’, since that’s not something you do,” says Lotta from the phone screen, “but I’ll say this anyway: Don’t panic.”

“You know how I am.”

His sisters rolls her eyes. “You _will_ be self-made. You already are! There are no legacies at public universities.”

Logic begins to take root in his head again, where it usually has a constant home. “Alright. I’ll forget about this for now.”

“Good. Focus on your finals.”

This makes Jean laugh. “You’d think that you were the older one.”

“I deserve to be!” She sits up in bed and Jean sees a flash of the logo on her pullover sweatshirt. _DOWA_ , in blearing bright blue letters and a familiar signature crown centered above the “A” and the “W”. He has one sitting in a small part of Lotta’s closet in New York, along with a few other articles of clothing he did not bring with him to college. “Also, I sat down and had a very long talk with Magie. He really needed it. Schwan and Magie _are_ involved, but it’s all very complicated.”

She is going to say more, but Jean’s ringtone goes off and interrupts her.

“It’s Nino,” Jean tells her. “I’ll call you back.”

Lotta waves, then hangs up.

“What happened?”

The reception isn’t very good, so Nino’s voice is uneven. “There’s someone out here asking for you.”

“I told him to leave.”

Apparently Nino relays the message. A few moments later, he hears breathing against his ear again. “Ruben would like you to know that he is very sorry, and he didn’t put your name in his project.”

Silence. “Alright. Say it’s fine, but I still want him to leave. No more playing the messenger.”

“You got it.” The call ends.

Dawning on Jean is the realization that this is Nino’s first real contact with his series of rebounds. Because that’s what they are, that’s what Jean has come to terms with them being. Forgetting was easy for a time. It is getting more and more difficult with each tightlipped kiss and the inevitable communication cut-off that follows every encounter he has.

They don’t talk about it.

 

* * *

 

Something else Nino and Jean don’t talk about:

Jean stops dating.

 

* * *

 

And he does get asked about it, now and then. It gets easier every time. Jean begins saying _Dowa_ in casual conversation and is surprised to one day realize how it does not burn to say it.

When he goes to submit a request to have his concentration changed from journalism to Modernist literature, the English major advisor asks him about Falke Dawo, and Jean doesn’t deny being related to him. He emerges from her office with two different kinds of closure.

 

* * *

 

 **From: English Departmental [englishlitdepartmental@...]**  
To: Jean Otus [jean-otus@gmail.com]   
CC: Department Chair [englishdeptchair@...]

_February 3 8:00 AM_

Dear Jean Otus,

Congratulations, you have been selected as a candidate for an English Honors B.A. with a concentration in Literature! Your hard work and outstanding effort throughout your time here has earned you recognition from our entire department.  As an Honors Student, you will be expected to complete rigorous coursework and an extensive Honors Thesis. Furthermore, as a member of a select population on campus, all incoming English Honors students have the opportunity to be randomly assigned to a paid summer internship at one of our local Bay Area partner publishing houses.  Should you accept this offer, your status as an Honors Student will be effective at the end of your second sophomore semester.

Please indicate by responding to THIS ONLINE FORM, within the next week, whether you will be accepting this offer.

Once again, congratulations, and…

**ATTACHED: 2 DOCUMENTS**

 

* * *

 

 **From: Hiring Staff [pbphiring@pbp.com]**  
To: NINO R. [photographybynino@...]  
CC: 

_February 4 7:00 PM_  
  
Dear candidate,

Congratulations! You have been selected for a paid summer internship as part of our Arts Alliance with your university. Your interview, resume, and portfolio are absolutely indicative of the talent and passion that you can bring to our company.

All new interns must attend an orientation on Saturday, March 16 in order to be eligible to begin working once summer commences.

We look forward to working with you!

Sincerely,

Your new friends at Premium Bay Photography

 

* * *

 

 _April – 2 years, 1 month until graduation_.

 

The clock indicates that the time is now three in the afternoon, and Jean stands from the desk he usually occupies during this particular English literature discussion and scurries out the door. His next class starts in fifteen minutes, and it’s always a challenge to make it on time.

As he turns the corner of the hallway located on the second floor of this red brick building that looks more like an apartment complex than an academic facility, a deep voice calls, from behind him: “Jean Otus.”

He stops, ears prickling and likely turning red upon hearing that cadence.

“Professor Grossular.”

It’s odd to see the looming man look so small; he’s wearing a simple sweater, brown slacks, has his hair tied back tightly and hanging down his back. Nothing on his face gives away whatever it is that is going through his head at the moment.

“I’m an advisor now, Mr. Otus.” The smile he grants Jean is warm, nonetheless.

He preens underneath the curve of those lips, though the jump in his chest is just a ghost of what he felt two years ago when the same man standing before him now gathered Jean’s hand between his own pair of them and told him, with such an earnest kindness that he had never heard before, “Congratulations, Mr. Otus. I look forward to witnessing your future impact on this campus, and on this program.”

“Right.”

“There’s been no chance for me to congratulate you,” says the taller man, coming forward and even closer. There aren’t many people around at this time, and they stand alone in front of the staircase. “I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished. You are a perfect fit for the Honors program.”

Nervousness – something he hides well, but is no stranger to, and it creeps up on him now, so unwanted. Unwarranted, too. But Jean can never separate the Grossular from yesterday with the Grossular of today. He will always be Professor Grossular to him, will always make him nervous. He stands taller than everyone in more than just height. It doesn’t mean anything to Jean that he was thrown into the controversies stirred by Professor Lilium.

“Thank you, sir.”

The man passes by him then, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he passes.

“I have an appointment to get to now. Enjoy the rest of the semester.”

Jean watches him go.

“You too, sir.”

 

* * *

 

_June – 1 year, 11 months until graduation._

 

[ Text ] From: Lotta   
12:00 AM – Happy twentieth birthday!! Rail says happy birthday too!!  
  
[ Text ] From: Mauve   
8:00 AM – Happy twentieth, kid. Welcome to the world of no teens.

[ Text ] From: Magie M.   
12:22 PM – Happy birthday, Jean. Have a wonderful day.

[ Text ] From: Unknown number   
12:24 PM – this is schwan

[ Text ] From: Unknown number   
12:24 PM – happy birthday old man

[ Text ] From: Falke D.   
3:00 PM – Jean, wishing you a very happy 20th birthday. Your present was sent by express mail two days ago and should be arriving today. Please accept my gift on this very special day and never hesitate to reach out if you should be in need of anything. – your grandfather

[ Text ] From: Nino   
6:38 PM – CAKE IS ON ITS WAY! no guarantees of a quick arrival however because you know the bus is always late on the stop for back home

[ Text ] To: Nino   
6:39 PM – BART broke down so you’ll probably beat me home.

[ Text ] From: Nino   
6:40 PM – a stroke of bad birthday luck??

[ Text ] To: Nino   
6:41 PM – Considering calling an Uber

[ Text ] To: Nino  
6:41 PM – I’ve been waiting for thirty minutes now

[ Text ] From: Nino   
6:42 PM – don’t let them murder you if you do

[ Text ] To: Nino   
6:43 PM – Called it. And you just jinxed me so RIP Jean Otus

[ Text ] From: Nino   
6:44 PM – is this my villain origin story? my best friend is murdered by an Uber driver and i become a deranged hermit who sabotages ride-share services around the world

[ Text ] To: Nino   
6:45 PM – Where do you come up with these things

 

* * *

 

“Jean! Nino!” Atoli, who is opening the door to her apartment at the same time that the two men are shuffling up the steps, waves at them. She only moved in at the beginning of the month, a few days ago, and she was relieved to see a familiar face. Thus far, she has already invited Jean over for coffee twice. Moz and Kelly are her roommates, but they have both gone home for the summer break. Atoli is left alone with two strangers that are subletting the other girls’ space, and it is apparent how terribly lonely she feels.

“Hello, Atoli,” greets Nino. Jean nods at her, struggling under the weight of the heavy packages sent to him by Falke and Lotta.

“Oh, that’s right! Jean, it’s your birthday!” As he steps off the stairs, she comes in for an awkward hug. Her dark blue hair is pulled into a very messy ponytail. She might be lonely when she has free time, but she’s also working on an extremely time-consuming physics research project that has her darting back and forth all the time. “Happy birthday! Let me help you with that.”

With hardly any effort, she plucks the top box off the bottom one. Jean feels instant relief. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble, I used to move around a lot. I can move boxes really well.”

The three of them enter Jean and Nino’s apartment, and Nino quickly makes to turn on the living room light. That makes it easier for them to put the packages down on the coffee table – the birthday cake, and the two presents.

“Hmm, well, I haven’t had time to get you anything,” Atoli murmurs, “but…is that birthday cake? I have some candles I can bring over!”

“Actually, that’d be great,” says Nino. “The bakery was out of everything except ‘8’ and ‘11’.”

“Then I’ll be right back!”

She darts off, ponytail essentially collapsed at this point. Nino grins at Jean.

“Are we accidentally throwing a party?”

Jean likes Atoli, but he really hopes not. It was a rough day at the publishing house, and it’s only his first week of work.

Having left the door open for easy re-entrance, Atoli comes back in after only spending three minutes away. “How old are you? Twenty?”

“Yes.”

She starts counting, and then hands Jean ten. Counting another ten, she hands the second bunch to Nino.

“Well, there you go.” Atoli looks quite satisfied with herself. Truly, Jean doesn’t know her very well, or at least he didn’t until now. They had met briefly twice, through Moz, last semester.

Jean says, “You didn’t have to, Atoli. This is nice of you. Thanks.”

“Of course. I don’t have any birthdays coming up soon, anyway,” she waves him off. Looking at Nino, she tilts her head curiously. “How about you, Mr. Dark and Mysterious? When are you arriving at the big two-oh?”

The smiles on Jean and Nino’s faces are simultaneous. “I had the big three-oh celebration last month.”

Her jaw drops. “No! You could tell me that you’re eighteen and I’d believe you!”

Quite used to this, Nino nods. “It’s a long story. I started college late in life.”

“I’ll bet it’s a _hell_ of a story, too.” Atoli shakes her head. “You’ll have to tell me sometime, but I really have to go. One of my roommates doesn’t have a car, and she got stranded in the next county to the south. _That’s_ a long story, too. I was just stopping by to grab my wallet.”

“Drive safely,” is Jean’s goodbye.

When she’s gone, Nino sits down on their used couch. “That never gets old.”

“Yet you don’t get carded.”

“Bartenders and cashiers can see the ‘seasoned social alcoholic’ in my eyes when I tip my glasses forward.”

“Ah. Right.”

“How do you want to play it?”

Licking his lips in thought, Jean looks over the situation at hand and then decides: “Cake first. And then presents.”

“Excellent taste, your highness.” With that, Nino stands and places a cardboard neon blue _Dowa Burgers_ crown on his head.

“Christ.” Jean rips it off immediately, eyeing the thing suspiciously. “Where did you get this?”

“A new one opened up across from the office. It’s the first one on the west coast. Do you think this is an elaborate gesture to reach out to you?” Nino pulls another one out his shoulder bag, shaping it until it’s fitted into the last slot that allows for the most space, considering that these things are made for children, and then putting it on his head. “We can match. How do I look?”

“Completely regal,” says Jean, sarcastically. He puts the crown down and makes to grab the birthday cake.

“Hey, hey!” The older man protests, swatting at Jean’s open hands. “Birthday boy doesn’t do heavy labor on his day. I’ll get that.”

He lets him. Carefully, Nino unwraps the elegant box until it openly displays the strawberry cake. Just looking at it is enough for Jean to believe he is in heaven. Nino doesn’t even let him get the candles, insisting that he be the one to put them in.

“I’ll let you do one thing,” relents Nino after the candles are fixed. “Where’s your lighter?”

It’s in his pocket, weightless. Jean doesn’t even feel it anymore. Grasping it, he begins lighting each one.

“Twenty years old,” Jean says. He turns the age around in his head and it feels fake, like something rubber that was supposed to be leather and feels absurdly wrong.

“This is a bridge. You’re not a teenager anymore, but you can’t do anything that teenagers can’t do. Still, enjoy it.”

“Stop sounding like the old man you are.”

“Below the belt,” but there’s no hurt in that tone.

When the candles are blazing, Jean sets the lighter back in his pocket. Like usual, Nino doesn’t sing for him. He just smiles from across the kitchen table, and says, “Make your wish, Jean.”

Whatever the wish is, it’s more of a feeling than a real utterance within his brain. He blows. They let out. Nino claps.

“Now to deal with this,” mutters Nino, and he begins plucking out the candles so that they can serve the cake properly. Once they are served, the two men return to the living room.

Falke has gifted him a laptop, a very new version only out for a month now. Jean has one that works perfectly fine, but he sighs and knows he can’t complain. From Lotta (and Rail, according to the card) there is a set of leather notebooks. She has also sent non-perishable strawberry cookies that she knows he likes, and several photos of her and Schwan, her and Jean, one of her and Nino, a few of her and Rail, two of Schwan and Magie. _For good memories_ , she writes on the back of the first photo. The last one in the stack is Jean and Nino, both donning dress suits on the night of the Dowa summer company banquet. He barely remembers her taking that photo, only remembers that it was before they even got to the party.

(“You both look great, and if I don’t get a picture I’m going to be very upset!”

So they moved together, they posed. Nino’s arm was around his shoulder like it belonged there, and in the photograph they look so seamless that it just might.)

He shows it to Nino, who gets a warm look in his eyes when he sees it.

“I forgot that she took that,” he says, taking it in his hand. “We should frame it.”

Jean picks up the box he believes to be empty, and realizes that there is something else in Lotta’s package. Three frames.

“She thought ahead,” he says, raising them up for Nino to see. They choose to assign a frame to the photo of them both, one to a photo of Jean and Lotta, and the last one to a photo of Nino and Lotta.

“We can decide where to put them later,” says Nino, standing up from where he was sat next to Jean. “Now it’s my turn to give you a gift.”

“You got me the cake, though.”

“But that’s not a proper present.” He shuffles around behind some books in one of their shelves, and emerges with a rectangular shape covered in brown wrapping paper. “I hid it here because I knew you wouldn’t touch the messiest shelf.”

“Very clever,” he says, accepting it. Even as he is unwrapping, he adds, “I told you not to spend anything.”

“And I told myself not to pay attention to you.”

Underneath the wrapping is a vast hardcover book. He sees the title and looks up at Nino very quickly.

_A Year in San Francisco._

“The year you moved to New York,” explains Nino, “this photographer took on a project to document the city, in photographs, every day for the entire year. I bookmarked the day you left so you can continue from there, if you want. The whole book is beautiful, though.”

Jean isn’t sure what to say. He runs a careful hand over the cover. “This is perfect.”

“It’s just incredibly lucky, really.”

“Perfect.”  

“I’m glad you like it.”

Wrong. He loves it. Gingerly, Jean sets it down on the coffee table. An absence of liquid courage is present, but something else moves in him. He stands, makes eye contact with his friend.

“A year ago…” Jean trails off. The words are hard to locate. _A year ago, we touched. A year ago, I started trying to forget what it is that makes me want you but it didn’t work out in the end._

“Jean,” is said in a warning tone. Nino knows. Of course he knows. No more innocent birthday festivities are lingering in the air about them; now there is only a long-awaited tension, the acknowledgement of something each of them has chosen to forget.

His hands twitch against his thigh, itching to dig out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. But he doesn’t go for them. Neither of them say anything for a time, and neither of them how much time actually passes along with the silence.

“Let’s just get more cake, Jean.” A hushed cadence.

Jean catches his arm.

Slowly, Nino sets his plate down. Jean loosens his hold on Nino’s soft cotton t-shirt, clinging loosely to the material. The look in his eyes is a dare.

This is the feeling of being strangled, the sensation of being forced to be submerged underwater, the notion of a dream tragically forgotten a few seconds after being awoken. It is all of that at once and more.

When Nino slowly raises his cold hands to place them on either side of Jean’s face, they are the hands from his dreams and now Jean knows.

Perhaps it’s the heat. That’s what they are going to tell themselves later, so it echoes around their heads now. Record summer temperatures are torturous, have been torturous for weeks now. Perhaps this is why Nino leans down and presses his mouth to Jean’s instantly responsive own, the older man moving against him with something that was not present a year ago. Jean’s hands come up to clasp Nino’s, still holding his face gently, moving them down the other man’s arms slowly before one of his hands goes to the back of Nino’s head.

In an elegant move, Nino turns them around without breaking contact with Jean’s mouth; Jean stumbles forward as Nino steps back, collapsing onto the sofa where Jean was previously sitting. It results in an awkward position wherein Nino is sitting properly with Jean essentially sitting on him, one leg sticking out from behind him and one knee placed between Nino’s own knees. Their mouths slide open against each other. Previously unwritten desperation comes into existence.

“Jean,” is whispered against his lips. The whisper isn’t the same warning hush from before; this one is heated in a different way.

He runs his thumb over Nino’s bruising pink mouth, bottom lip redder than the top. “Let’s not talk.”

A soft touch strokes his wrist. “We’ve done that before.”

“And we can do it again.”

It isn’t difficult to slide back into the easy rhythm of kissing each other. An interruption comes in the form of Nino moving down from Jean’s mouth and sucking on the point where his neck meets his collarbone. Jean grits his teeth and slides his hands underneath soft cotton material so he can feel Nino’s chest. This earns him a grunt of approval, so surprising, so melodic. He’d like to hear it over and over again.

Everything that happens, happens there. As if the unspoken balance would shift unchangeably if they carried this somewhere else. They end up on the floor with no fear of carpet burn as they unclothe and Nino’s mouth is everywhere, a torch that heats Jean up wherever it goes. He says _Nino_ , a million times, it’s his incantation. Pulls at Nino’s hair when he goes to kiss him on the mouth every now and then, between their other endeavors. Pulls harder whenever Nino breathes _Jean_ like it’s a moan. This hair is _right_ , these eyes are _right_. Nino’s hands on him are _right_ like nothing else in his life has ever been, and Jean is so bewildered by the idea that he could have ever been uncertain of how or when he would fall in love with this man who touches him with unbearable fervor and care all wrapped into one overwhelming sensation. There is a point when their arms are around each other’s shoulders, awkwardly, as they face each other and Nino gives soft thrusts and his hands are suddenly on Jean’s back stroking soft circles all over and nothing hurts even though it should; Jean grabs onto Nino’s hair, holds him tight, never wants him to be more than an inch away from him, always wants him to be bathed in moonlight like this in his arms.

Jean kisses Nino softly, a lingering breath, after they have finished in each other’s hands.

It is all so perfect for a moment.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t want it to happen like that,” confesses Nino when they are lying side by side, no longer touching, on the messy living room floor.

“But you did want it to happen.”

Quiet, a pause. A few heartbeats. “Yes.”

A lesser cousin of rage brews in Jean’s chest. “You rejected me.”

Nino turns his head to stare at Jean, who has not looked away from Nino since they broke apart. “Wanting you is a complicated moral situation for me.”

“You make it complicated.” He is well aware of how accusatory he sounds.

“No,” whispers Nino. His voice rises, slightly. He is insistent. “The circumstances of our life, and how we met, make it complicated.”

An _unspoken I have known you for eighteen years longer than you have known me and you have to catch up_ is there. Jean hears it. He understands, but he resents it.

“We won’t talk about this tomorrow,” whispers Jean.

There is no affirmation from Nino. It isn’t necessary.

For now, however – for now, Jean settles himself into Nino’s side and spreads an arm over his bare chest, and Nino kisses his forehead and holds him, and they go to sleep and don’t talk about it the next morning.

 

* * *

 

 _June – 11 months until graduation_.

Jean expects something to happen, considering his and Nino’s previous track record regarding unexpected non-platonic trysts in June.

Nothing does. Senior year preparations are made, jobs are done, Lotta comes and visits with Rail.

Nino is with him, always, but not _with_ him.


	7. Armistice (or, an Epilogue)

****

_“The weight of the world is love.”_

Allen Ginsberg

 

 _March – 3 months until graduation_.

 

...so he stops playing pretend.

Jean waits on the sofa for a handful of seconds, at first, as Nino departs and opens the door to his bedroom. The choice is already made, really, it’s always been made and if there will ever be a time to put that decision out there for Nino to know, it has to be know. No more playing pretend, no more playing catch-up.

Nino glances over his shoulder when he hears Jean open the half-closed door. He’s in the middle of changing out of his t-shirt, it’s only half on his body.

“I’m going with you.”

Four words that their relationship is now hinging on.

The taller, older man stops and pulls his shirt back down slowly, turning properly so he can look at Jean, who is still standing in the doorway. “Where?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Jean—”

“It’s time,” _for us to happen_ , “for me to follow you.”

“You don’t have—”

“I want to.”

“San Francisco is your home.”

“Not without you.”

Stepping closer, Jean seals his words by wrapping his arms around Nino’s shoulders. It takes his friend by surprise, but he gently puts his hands on Jean’s waist and holds them there.

Speaking into Jean’s hair, Nino says, “You were supposed to get over me.”

Jean’s first answer is to tighten his embrace of Nino. “Did you want me to?”

“For your sake, Jean.” Now Nino is stroking the hair on the back of his neck. “Always for your sake.”

“So no, then.”

Hands hold his face, pulling him backwards away from Nino, who tilts his chin upwards so they can look at each other.

“Well, no,” says Nino, and it’s so easy how he says this _because he’s caught up he’s caught up he’s finally caught up_ , “because I love you.”

Jean swallows, eyes threatening to grow wet if all he does is dwell on those words. Instead, he takes one of Nino’s hands away from his face and kisses his palm. “I caught up.”

“I guess you did.”

There is something else to be said. Jean says it, lips still on Nino’s hand.

“And I love you, too.”

Nino takes him in his arms and the world feels right, feels sane. Jean digs his nails into Nino’s shoulders, feels safe to be held like this this. To have lips kissing the top of his head, to have hands clutching his back.

“I know, Jean,” whispers Nino, “I know.”

And his eyes – they do grow wet, if only a little.

 

* * *

 

_After, or: The actual beginning_

 

Pat Benatar’s grainy voice croons from the car radio, declaring _love is a battlefield, you’re begging me to go, then making me stay_.

“Turn that off, or change it,” Jean mutters, eyes focused on the road and his hands stuck firmly to the worn out steering wheel.

“Aww, you don’t like this song?” The grin is loud in Nino’s voice. The music gets louder, no doubt by the older man’s hand. He starts yelling along with the higher voice, and it’s so terribly out of tune that Jean has trouble keeping his own grin from taking over his face and giving him away. “Searching our hearts for so long, both of knowing love is a battlefield—”

It’s then that the radio gives out, which is lucky because Jean realizes he is only half a mile from their exit and is still near the fast lane. With the intensity of a madman and none of the expressions to show it, he cuts through three lanes.

“Jesus, you’re lucky there isn’t any traffic,” says Nino, and then he points. “There, it’s that one.”

The sign they pass just before the exit says _Los Angeles City Limit_.

Jean emerges on a road where there are only two lanes, one heading opposite his direction and one that he is on. According to the GPS, he still has to drive ten miles on his curving road before he will reach their destination; it’s a backroad route, clearly, but it will get them to where they need to get.

“Twenty minutes, and then we’re there,” announces Jean, eyes flickering away from the map on his phone screen and towards Nino, who is scrolling on his phone.

“The truck will get here not much longer after we do,” Nino tells him, eyes still on his phone, “and Lotta says that she and Rail are boarding the plane now, so they should be here tonight. She wants to know if we’ll be picking her up or if she could call for a car.”

“Tell her we’ll be there,” Jean affirms. “Mohnt doesn’t need to rent a car.”

“He probably will anyway.”

Jean scoffs. “Yeah.”

The familiar click of a camera goes off, Jean unfazed. Here they are, in the great beyond, the great west. Jean, truthfully, isn’t completely sure what he will do here, in this city he doesn’t know at all. But he’s willing to figure it out.

More than that: He’s excited to figure it out.

“Hey,” says Nino, softly. It earns him a quick look from Jean. “You’re happy?”

There’s really only one thing to say to that.

“Yeah,” Jean says, and he truly means it. More than he has meant most things in his life. “I am.”

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he reaches his right one out.

Nino takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u can send ur hate mail to my [twitter!!](http://www.twitter.com/8bitcannibal)
> 
> thank u sm to anyone that read this, i really appreciate u. and idk if i will ever return with more acca 13 fic but this was both a pleasure and a pain to work on!!


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